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...

The Meaning of Pride

After resting for a week in Kutaisi Tim and I thought things would be easier for us as we began the last part of our trip. We planned on making it to Tbilisi in a week and not stopping for more than a day in any of the cities along our way, yet as we headed for Zestaponi (30 km from Kutaisi) our old problems resurfaced - my crippling cramp and Tim's bad knee. At first the weather was working to our advantage but as we got worse so did the environment around us. The terrain we crossed was empty - no cafes, no place to stop and warm our cold bones. Quiet most of the day we agreed to stop anywhere we could after walking 20km, although I really hoped we would do more. All I wanted was to be done with the walk, to bring this journey, this lesson, to an end, and I knew the sooner I did the better.

"There is an old church about 2 km off the road," I am told by a toothless old man along the way. "Not sure if you'll find a priest there though."
"I can't make it to Zestaponi," Tim replies to my question of whether we head for the village of Argveta and the church or continue towards a hotel in the city 10 km further.

As we walk down the muddy village road we spot a group of men standing and smoking cigarettes together. "Go and ask them if they know where we can sleep. Tell them we can pay." Tired and grumpy I snap back at Tim: "That's offensive. I'm not going to offer them money like that just because they're poor. Lets keep going towards the church." "Just ask. Fuck it, I'll do it myself. How do you say homestay? Chasni what?" "Forget it, I'll do it." With absolutely no desire to talk to the hardened men, I approach them.

"Excuse me, my friend and I are on a long journey. We have walked here from far away. We're very tired and need a place to sleep for the night." "Show them the letter from the bishop," Tim interrupts. "Where are you from?" the men ask. "I'm from Croatia but we walked from Istanbul." "Tell them I walked from Spain," Tim adds. "We just need a warm dry place to sleep tonight, not even a bed," I continue. "Tell them we can pay." "Oh, just shut up Tim would you!"
I had lost it. I couldn't concentrate with Tim interrupting me and I lashed out at him. "You never talk to me that way," Tim yells furiously, "NEVER!" I ignore him and keep explaining our situation to the men, who, after reading the letter from the bishop, tell us they know of a place we could sleep. An elderly mentally challenged farmer shows us to a large concrete building, a former agricultural institute now used for growing mushrooms. We meet a bunch of men inside - a large former wrestler from Osseti named Maho, his cousin, another bulky man named Zura and a few other farmers from the village. Glad to host two 'crazy' walkers they fill our cups and a meal of mushroom stew, fish, cheese and cabbage is served.

Ashamed of my words and deeply distrubed with what was going on inside me I only manage to say: "I'm sorry Tim..." "You know I've got more experience at this than you," he replies, "I know what I'm doing." "I know Tim. I don't know what's wrong with me. Having to take care of everything is getting to me, please understand." And my brother did understand. He knew the mental anguish I was going through, he knew my anger was not directed towards him...and at times I felt he had a better opinion of me than I did....

Sitting at a long table in what seemed to be an old laboratory, Maho takes a slim long glass test tube and fills it with wine. "Have you ever tried drinking out of this?" he asks. Keeping his thumb over the hole at one end, he places the other in his mouth. He lifts his thumb and air pushes the wine into his mouth. "Try it, come on." I explain that Tim is sick and that he can't drink any alcohol. "Antibiotics," Tim adds. I would be doing the entertaining/drinking again. I fill the test tube with a glass of homemade white wine as an elderly farmer explains the meaning behind the ritual. The tube represents life - the beginning is slim, the middle wider (representing the 'good' years when you get married and have children) and the end slim again. "To life! Gamajos!" I toast and down goes the wine. The men are a merry bunch and after the test tube they drink out of a horn, out of clay plates and other various 'toys'. We laugh, sing, toast and drink well past midnight and I slowly sink into a haze of tired drunkeness. "Make sure you follow where we go to sleep, man. I'm fucked up." I proudly keep drinking with Maho, Zura and the others, showing them that I could keep up. Late into the evening Maho takes us to his humble home where we sleep in a spare room.

"You're OK?" Tim asks surprised I'm not more hungover in the morning. "I'll be fine when we hit the road." It was raining outside but I was in no mood to stay longer with Maho. Although he was nothing but welcoming towards us, there was something wrong about him. He, like almost everyone we met in Georgia, was unemployed, and he kept talking about better days and how everything was falling apart now. His house was poor - moldy walls and in desperate need of a paint job. His outhouse was a horrible mess and his yard overgrown with weeds. The new system, the Russians, Sakarshvili (the president) - everyone was against him and it was all their fault.

As his quiet 12 yr old daughter served us breakfast Maho began yelling at her violently. "What is this?! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!" Apparently she had put used tea bags in our cups. Tim and I of course have nothing against used tea bags but Maho was too proud for us to witness his poverty. The scene is a great metaphor for Georgian society and I will never forget it. Maho, like most men in Georgia, resented not having work. He was proud and felt embarrassed that he couldn't provide certain things for his family but instead of rolling up his sleeves and planting an extra row of potatoes, or trimming the grass in his yard, painting his rusty gate and house or even bringing a bucket of water to his outhouse, he spent his days drinking from horns and playing around like a kid while blaming his misfortune on everything and everyone.

It was then and there that I realized how little I really respected these men. It doesn't matter how bad things get, you don't give up on your family, on yourself. You try your best and damn it in most cases you figure something out. I remember the men in Turkey - also poor, also proud, but proud enough to plant on every strip of land they could find, even on patches next to the highway, proud enough to tend to other people's cows for extra cash, to make their homes as nice as they could. I was realizing what it meant to be a 'good' man, a husband, a father. At times I felt that Georgia was giving up and trying to keep myself from doing so in such an atmosphere was harder than I could have ever imagined...

Kings and Drunkards

Kutaisi was not the urban center we had pictured it to be. Being the second largest city in Georgia (pop. 250,000), we had expected a miniature version of Tbilisi, not more of the poorly-stocked stores and muddy streets we had encountered on our way. Granted the center boasts a magnificent theater and a noble statue of David the Builder, Georgia s most successful leader, but the locals were not accustomed to foreigners and after 5 months I was tired of rural stares...

We reached the city early and after spending a few hours wandering about from Turkish coffee to Turkish coffee, we "accidentally" bumped into Giorgi from Batumi. Irakli had told him we were in Kutaisi so he dropped by on his way back from a short trip to Tbilisi. He was accompanied by two sisters named Lily and Tea and we soon found ourselves knocking back a few Natakhtaris at a pub nearby.

"Irakli! Levani! What a surprise!" We had no idea Levani would be coming to visit us but after hearing that Tim had been ill he decided to hitch-hike with Irakli in case we needed some help. That is the nature of Levani, Giorgi and our Georgian friends - always ready to help a visitor...

"You know what Russians want? Do you know what Gorbachov s wife once said? She said Georgia would be great if it wasn t for the Georgians!" Giga, a friend of Irakli s had hosted us for a few days and the chacha and wine we drank in his cellar was fuelling our passionate discussions well into the night. Giga s uncle and friends, Erekle and Nikolai, were all explaining the situation their beloved nation was facing.
"Well," I replied, "I d like to say a toast about that. Russians may want to see Georgia with no Georgians, but I d be happier to see Georgia with no Russians! Gamarjos (cheers)!" Giga s uncle laughed upon hearing my toast. "You re a wise man and I think you understand our troubles." "I don t consider myself to be very wise. That s probably why I m here; I ve got a lot to learn, but I do understand how it is to be from a small country and I do understand how it is when others don t let you be what you consider yourself to be. I am Croatian. How could I be anything else? Even if it meant I would have an easier life I couldn t change how I look at myself. The world wanted us to be Yugoslavian but we fought for our identity. Isn t the world a little richer for this? Each language, culture, way of looking at life makes this world more interesting. Georgians fought for centuries to feel the way they do, to think the way they do. You didn t compromise your beliefs and you didn t bend over to others and I respect this. Sakartvelo gamarjos (cheers to Georgia)!" A small drunk man of about 25 named Tengo barely manages to lift his glass up yet somehow drinks it down in a single gulp. "I like you," he tells me as his red glassy eyes close and his head flops to the table...

Tim was taking a nap when Irakli and I went to visit the thousand year old Bagrati church, which overlooks the city from a hill. Under complete renovation, not much was left standing except the massive exterior walls and a few chambers on the second floor. Quite similar to the Sumela monastery in Trabzon, the interior was decorated by simple, yet colorful Biblical scenes. Inside a few men in blue uniforms were huddling around a blueprint spread over a stone pillar piece, listening to a small man giving instructions...
"Wait a minute," I think to myself, "it can t be! Tengo!" The man I had taken for a complete drunkard the night before was in fact the main architect of the Bagrati renovation project. Soon we were shown to his office on the second floor - the king s chamber where David the Builder had conducted his affairs while in Kutaisi...

"You like Tom Waits? The piano has been drinking, not me, not me..." Tengo sings as he pours himself another glass of chacha. We had finished the bottle in less than 30 minutes and he was hammered. I walk around the wooden chamber and look at the view of the city from the window, imagining how it must have been for David to rule a nation, to solve so many problems, to survive amongst such large neighbors..."So this is how it was to be king," I think to myself as I turn to look at Tengo struggling to keep his eyes open. "The piano was drinking...not me...not me...BARF!!" Tengo vomits his brains out all over the floor!! Tipsy ourselves, Irakli and I try to clean up the mess and make our host sleep on the couch in his office but he refuses. "It s not me...the piano..." he slurs as he wobbles to and fro. "We can t let him leave this room Irakli. His workers shouldn t see him like this." "I know, but he won t listen."
Giga arrives and also tries in vain to persuade Tengo to listen to us. "I m fine..." he mutters as he wipes the drool from his mouth, "the piano, hehe..." We leave together and the workers look on as we slowly descend the scaffolding towards the exit...they know the state their boss is in...

Tengo follows us as we head back towards the center and passerby stare at the young man barely able to walk at 1 pm. "The piano..." he sings at the ladies who give him scolding looks...

"He s a smart man but he likes to drink...too much," Irakli explains as we pick Tengo up from the curb he was sitting on and put him into a cab for home. It seems that is the case with most young Georgian men...


Irakli left for Batumi and Giga s parents returned home after visiting some friends so Tim and I checked into a cheap hotel. We needed to rest and I needed to do so soberly. We spent a few days with Giorgi s friends Lily and her sister as well as with Tea and Eliyna, who we also met our first night in Kutaisi. It was a nice change to be in female company and to be chacha-free for a few days. Drinking was such an intricate part of Georgian life and as we continued our journey towards Tbilisi, I found myself drinking more and more...at first out of politeness, later out of routine and finally out of want. The longer I stayed in Georgia, the more "Georgian" I was becoming and I felt myself starting to handle the grey cold weather and poverty the way they do...

Falling Apart

The snow-capped mountains to the north and the chacha that Dato insisted I take were all that kept me from losing my mind as we slowly made our way from Samtredia to Kutaisi. The narrow road full of skinny wandering cows and the occasional grazing pig, was lonely, depressing and longer than we had expected. After two days of walking in the cold rain we were tired and our troubles seemed to be more serious than ever. Our old ailments had come back to haunt us and each step was a challenge. Tim's knee was sore as it had been at the very beginning of our trip in Turkey and he was taking breaks often. I knew what was going on in his mind - he was questioning whether to continue, to walk, to endure the pain and why. I also knew that pain was much stronger when one questions it's purpose...and the thin line between mental and physical anguish was getting thinner by the kilometer...

I was going through similar doubts myself and was of little help to my brother. As in Sivas, a massive leg cramp kept me slow and my teeth clenched all day. By the time we covered our first few kilometers, I was walking as if I had a wooden leg and the pain began playing tricks on me. Singing, yelling, praying- I tried everything I could to forget the pain, my body - but for the first time I felt as if I was losing the battle...After thousands of kilometers and months of disciplining my mind, I was slipping and what I thought to be an unpenetrateable wall of self-control was now cracking...for the first time I wondered if it was physically possible for us to make it, and as we got closer to Tbilisi the reasons for "making it" were getting lost in a fog of pain...

Irakli the Philosopher had friends in Kutaisi, Georgia's second largest city, and he had promised to spend time with us there, we just needed to make it to the center. 10 km from the entrance of the city Tim signals that he's in trouble. The pain in his knee was unbearable and he couldn't go on. I walk back to him and see the tears bulging in his eyes. "My knee, nigger....I can't..." "How bad is it?" I ask, " Do you just need a break or what?" "I don't know. It's like it was in Gebze...I'm taking a bus..." "Come on man, just 10 more kilometers and we'll rest in Kutaisi. After a few days you'll be fine." At that point 10 km seemed longer than the entire trip from Istanbul to Georgia...

We rested 15 minutes or so on in a pine forest next to the road and after stretching our painful legs we silently tried to find the strength to continue. Well-aware that I would pay for this self-abuse for years to come, if not forever, I managed to pick up my backpack for the thousandth time and hobble down the road. I started wondering if the lessons I learned along the walk, about myself, about the world, were worth it...and to my surprise I felt anger in my heart - angry at myself for being in such a difficult position, angry at the walk for being so hard, at the world for all its hardships...but I would keep going, I had promised myself I would not give up, and I knew each step I took further would be a reference for everything I would do in life...nothing would be as hard as this - if I 'made it' now I could do anything in the future, I would be a better man...a man of his word...

"I can't go further." With only 5 km to the center I thought we would be fine but Tim had come to the end of his strength. I put my arm around my brother and we walked together like wounded soldiers towards the nearest hotel, praying they would let us stay the night for a reasonable price. Armed with the bishop's letter in my hand I pleaded our cause to the receptionist and again the kindness of another saved us - we were given a room for a ridiculously small fee...

"We're not going to watch French T.V. all morning are we?" I angrily snapped at Tim. "You have no understanding for how it is for me to speak English all the time and not hear my own language." "What?! I don't understand?! I spent fucking 3 months in Turkey!" "You're a selfish asshole!" "You're the selfish asshole!" Our patience was thin and we began the morning on a bad note. Four months of being so close with someone was a lesson of tolerance, patience and understanding but with all the troubles we were facing it was getting harder for us to respect each other. At times I couldn't believe the anger and bitterness coming from my lips. I didn't feel like myself at all. The physical and mental strains were making it hard for me to think about anything else than myself and finishing the walk...Since crossing into Georgia, the mental aspect of the walk had gotten much harder for me. It was now I who had to communicate with the people at the end of a tiring day and who had to entertain and be entertained at their tables. It was now I who had to carry us. As I witnessed Tim physically falling apart, I felt myself doing the same, mentally...

City of Three Doves

"Fucking map!" I was furious. Samtredia (The city of three doves) should have been 27 km from Chohatauri according to the German map Franz had given me way back in Yozgat. We should have been in the city already but people were telling us we had 10km more to go. It was the first time the map had failed me (unfortunately not the last) and it couldn't have happened at a worst time. It had rained again that day and our spirits were really low. We hadn't come across many people except for some men driving 5 cows down the hilly road. We had a humble meal of canned fish and corn in front fo the only store we came across and things were tough. I had really hoped that the first few days from Ozurgeti would be easy since Tim was still getting over his bout of pneumonia but we were unlucky. We couldn't find a place to have a cup of coffee or tea all day - nowhere to warm ourselves up. Not a single gas station we ever came across in Georgia had a bathroom or cafe! The abandoned buildings we passed were also starting to get to us, not to mention the creepy old Soviet monuments - muscular heroes, straight out of a comic book, weilding triumphant swords or a worker's hammer - sad reminders of better times, of forgotten philosophies, principles...

To be brutally honest, I experienced Samtredia as a dark, muddy ghetto. Not one street was paved properly nor were there any street lamps - soon our shoes were heavy with Georgian mud. The large concrete communist monstrosities were all falling apart - their facades 20 years without a single coat of paint or bucket of plaster...much like the rest of the country, it felt as if the city was taking its last breath...

We were told there would be a hotel in the center but as we slowly made our way into the city under the pouring rain we discovered that it was under renovation, although it didn't seem like anyone had touched the ancient building in decades. I was lost; no idea where to go, what to do. It was around 8 pm so the church would be closed and finding a priest would be impossible. I ask everyone I come across for another hotel but no luck...

As we were standing on a corner, thinking desperately what to do next, a car pulls up to us and three young men ask me where we were from and what we were doing in Samtredia. I explain hurridly and ask for a hotel. Tim is in no mood to talk with the men, thinking they were more drunks taking us for clowns as was the case many times along the way. There was something about the guy that I liked though and I told Tim that all was good. The 3 men in the car told me of another hotel and we left in that direction but the receptionist there told us there were no vacancies. I didn't have the heart to tell Tim and just gave him a desperate silent look. The two days from Ozurgeti seemed to have gone all wrong - Tim shouldn't have been walking at all after being so sick, let alone under these cold and wet conditions. I felt guilty, I know I had pushed him to continue...

As we head for the exit two men from the car show up at the door and ask if everything is alright. When I tell them there is no room for us, one of the men, Dato, offers to take us to his house. I shake his hand and thank him in the warmest words I could express in my limited Russian. After explaining our 'no car' philosophy, Dato and his friend Tato (yes, sounds like an 80s pop band:)) agree to accompany us on foot as their friend Gia follows us by car. The two kind souls walk 3 km with us in the pouring rain without umbrellas or raincoats, soaked to the bone by the time we reach their muddy neighborhood...an act Tim and I deeply respected...

"We like meeting people from other countries," begins our host Dato, " I saw you guys walking down the street and felt you needed help, you needed us." How true he was! We sat at the dinner tablewith our three 25 yr old friends as Dato's beautiful wife served us simple but delicious meals. Dato's father, a slim white-haired baker named Konstantin was the tamada and he was moved by our story and happy to be with us. All of our possessions were hanging above the wooden stove and Dato's 8 yr old daughter and 3 yr old son looked at awe at our toys - walking sticks, sleeping bags, etc.

"What do you guys do for a living?" I asked and everyone's face darkened. "We used to work but there no jobs now," replied Tato solemnly. Rarely did we come across a young person in Georgia that had a job and I learned there and then not to ask hard questions like this at the dinner table.

Dato was a quiet man and after reaching his home he let his father and friends do most of the talking, yet there was something very familiar about him and I felt that I knew him well. It could have been that he reminded me of my friends back in Herzegovina - quiet, tough, God-fearing men with prideful hearts. Gia also reminded me of my countrymen. He was a young war veteran and had been wounded on the front lines during the Russian-Georgian conflict. Although he spoke little of the war and I inquired even less, I could tell from the bags under his eyes that he had seen too much too young as did many of my friends, relatives and neighbors back home. He told us that he would soon be deployed in Afghanistan for a peacekeeping mission and that this was neccessary for Georgia to enter NATO - a key for their future security against Russia. "Seems like a big price to pay," I told him, imagining this good man in a hostile desert, "you have given enough," but Gia was a patriot and would give to his country to the end.

"To our guests, gifts from God," Konstantin raises his glass and we follow, "thank you for walking to us! To your health my friends!" We all drink our wine down in a single gulp and again I am moved by the respect and hospitality shown to me by the Georgians who even during hard times still manage to fill a stranger's belly and warm his spirit...

After a lot of wine, chacha and good food, we are shown to a large bed with heavy colorful quilts. The next day we would head for Kutaisi, the second largest city in Georgia, where we would meet up with our friend Irakli the Philospher but I didn't think much about it. I kept replaying our encounter with the three men in my head. I felt something was pushing us forward towards our goal of Tbilisi. Again a "random" encounter had saved us - 4 and a half months of "random" encounters and hundreds of people who had passed our fates from their hands to another's....it was as if they were waiting for us along our road, waiting to push us forward...I smile to myself as I realize we were saved by Dato, Tato and Gia in the City of Three Doves, "Of course, it makes perfect sense!"

Another Day, Another Bed

Tim had woken up and I could see some new color in his face. "We can walk tomorrow, I feel better." Overwhelmed with joy I jumped into his bed and gave him a hug. 7 days had passed since we arrived in Ozurgeti, 7 days of worrying about my friend, of trying to find the patience to bare not walking for so long. Patience was turning out to be one of the most important aspects of the trip and towards the end I found myself cracking - quick to snap at others, to lose my temper...even feeling angry at Tim for being sick, pushing him to walk again...

It was drizzling when we left Ozurgeti and perhaps we wouldn't have walked that day but after telling Father Basili that he would be free of his two guests we felt we had no choice. The bishop had written up a letter saying we were good guests and on a pilgrimage to Tbilisi and that everyone should help us in our endeavour as is the Christian way. The letter was golden and it was really nice of the bishop to help us this way. His name and official church stamp would open a lot of doors for us. He had also given us 200 Lari - a generous contribution, roughly an average monthly salary in Georgia, and a gift we were not allowed to refuse. Saying no to the bishop was an insult - he was wise and his decisions were not open to questioning or persuasion.

The drizzling rain turned into a downpour and as we exited the city towards the little town of Chohatauri we were drenched. Tim had abandoned his rubber shoes in Turkey and his worn-out boots offered little protection from the rain. His feet were soon wet and I knew he was in a miserable state. Dressed in my green plastic raincoat I led the way, all the while stopping to check on Tim who was struggling behind.

"I shouldn't be walking in the rain! I had pneumonia, that's no joke! What the hell am I doing here!" "We'll be in Chohatauri soon Tim, its only about 24 km away." I tried my best to give him some hope but I too was cold, wet and miserable and I knew it would be a long day...

As we stop at the only store along the way, Tim is desperate. We hadn't eaten anything all day and are weak. Some drunken men are hanging out in front of the store and as we take a seat on a small wooden bench they approach us. "Where are you from?", a wobbling man manages to blurt out in Russian. He flicks his forefinger against his throat which in Georgian means "Do you want to drink?" "No!" Tim answers loudly and begins to rant in French. I enter the store and buy some cookies and chocolate for us and get some plastic shopping bags for Tim to wrap his feet in. The men outside finally realize we are in no mood to joke around and they invite us to a room adjacent to the store for some canned fish and bread which we accept gladly. I have a few shots of chacha with the men to warm myself up but Tim is on antibiotics and declines the small coffee cup full of potent booze. Wrought with years of alcohol abuse, the men's faces tell a sad story - the popped little veins on their noses, their glassy eyes and red complexions, all speak of desperation, hopelessness and addiction....something we had encountered throughout Georgia.

"I need to warm up now or I'll die nigger!" We can barely keep our thought focused by the time we reach Chohatauri, a typical little Georgian town with muddy streets, rusty gates, poorly stocked shops and kiosks where people sell gasoline and oil in reused plastic bottles. Father Basili had contacted the local church and they were expecting us but we were in no mood to entertain or be entertained and waiting in a cold church for a priest to take us home seemed too much at the time. I explain our story to a local man standing on a corner and he tells me he knows a "chasni dom" (Russian for honorable home) - a person's home where you can sleep for some money. We enter the old house and meet an elderly lady who we bargain with. Soon Tim's feet are in a basin of hot water and we are drying off next to her wooden stove...we go to bed early and head for Samtredia (Three Doves) as the sun rises. "Where will we sleep tomorrow night?" I wonder...."Another day, another bed......"

Men of Faith part 3

Father Basili saved us. It was as simple as that. Looking back I can't believe how incredibly lucky we were to have met him when we did...who knows what would have happened if Tim had gotten so ill elsewhere...

The women were all in tears as I opened Father Basili's suitcase and looked for his large gold cross. He had lit the incense cube and placed it in his gold plated holder, which hung from a long chain. The smoke cube would be next. I had learned the procedure quickly and was following the Father in each step. This was the third funeral anniversary for me in two days and I made a good assistant. Since Tim had been bed-ridden for the last 4 days I tried to be as useful to Basili as possible and to occupy my time.

Kristi was the name of the deceased girl and Father was visibly shaken as he condoled her mother, grandmother and other loved ones. She was one of many who died too young in car accidents - a major problem in Georgia, as in my own country. Looking at the face chiseled into the 2-yr old tombstone I could tell that Kristi was a beautiful young girl and I would later find out she had been of child as well when she tragically died.

Father Tom, a small man who hardly spoke during the 7 days I knew him, seemed to take little interest in anything. He finished Father Basili's prayer and soon he was behind the wheel of his Golf driving my host and I. The ritual was short - a few prayers, the women moaning loudly over the grave, a blessing by Basili and some champagne poured over the grave. We all left saddened but things soon livelied up as we headed back to Kristi's mother's house for a supra (feast) - such is the tradition and in this way Kristi would be honored for years to come.

"How's Tim today?", Father Tom asks much to my amazement as we took our seats at the long table. "Not much better. The doctor said he has pneumonia. He's getting some shots and needs to rest for a few days." "Hmmmm."
The table is loaded with food - dozens of plates of delicious Georgian delicacies such as lobio (bean paste), fried mushrooms and smoked fish all piled on top of each other. The tamada (toastmaster) lifts his glass for the first toast. We honor God first and the men all rise to their feet as do I. As was the case with all the feasts I had been to, everyone inquires about me and Father Basili explains patiently. As the feast progresses and we go through the steps of tamada, my host pinches my knee and tells me we'd be going soon. There would be another funeral anniversary... it could have been the grey winter weather or the depressingly poor living conditions many Georgians were facing but it seemed that death was all around...

"To our guest from Croatia! You have come a long way to join us at our table and know we respect this! May you be healthy and may God bless you and your path! To you, friend!" The 60-70 men all rise to their feet and drink to my health and I too gulp down my glass of wine. I was touched by the respect shown to me, by the similarities between our cultures, by the passion of these struggling people. I was wise not to drink too much that feast but the wine did give my tongue some courage and I found myself asking the tamada permission to say a toast as we were leaving.
"I apologize comrades for not speaking Georgian and for my bad Russian but I would like to speak. I will never forget you and your great country. There have been many wars in my country and in yours. No more wars for either, I wish you all peace... to peace!", and the men drank with me.

"How are you feeling man?" "The shot in the morning killed me. I felt dead, other than that I'm the same." After two days of antibiotics and vitamin shots, Tim should have been feeling better. He hadn't gotten out of bed in 3 days and Father Basili and I had been pouring liters of tea and juice in him...

"I don't think I'll be continuing. My walk is over." "Come on Tim, you'll be fine in a couple of days." "I've got pneumonia nigger! I'm not going to die because of this walk! There are other things I want to do..." This was the first time I heard Tim speak this way and I was worried. I had known for a while that he probably wouldn't make it to China with his fragile immunity but now I was worried he wouldn't even make it to Tbilisi. I knew if he didn't get better soon he would have to take a bus to Tbilisi and I would have to continue alone...

My days in Ozurgeti were mostly spent learning Russian by the gas heater in Basili's living room, playing with his sons Luka and Ivan and the adorable chubby-cheeked 3-yr old Anastacia, and following my host during his clergic obligations. I also spent a lot of time in the local church learning about Orthodox Christianity and the Georgian Patriarchy - thanks to many discussions with Father Ermo, Basili and many other clergy men in the church who were all very friendly towards me. I also bonded with Basili's oldest daughter, Maria (14 yrs old) whom I gave a few English lessons and who played a Georgian wooden flute splendidly. Father Basili was a merry man and always full of jokes (surprisingly some even dirty!). He is compassionate and a good example of what a Christian should be. He hosted me and my sick companion for a week and patiently tended to our needs. His family was big yet his home was always open for neighbors, relatives, friends and even on one occasion for a worried young couple expecting their first child. His house was always full of guests, kids wrestling on the floor and the happy sounds of crying babies, the clinking of silverware, of men toasting...of life...

Maria was studying by the heater as Luka and Ivan were wrestling on the floor. Eleyna, Father Basili's wife, was preparing dinner and a few relatives were lingering about the spacious house as Father Basili arrived with a special guest.
In a way I knew it was the bishop before he opened the door. Basili entered before him and said something excitedly in Georgian and everyone immediately dropped what they were doing. The bishop, clad in a black robe and large golden cross (as the other priests are), strutted into the house and everyone ran to kiss his hand as he slowly extended it. It was surreal...the way he strutted about having his hand eagerly kissed...as if he was doing them all a great favor...he was simply "pimpalicious":) Accompanied by a feverish woman (an assistant of sorts) he took his seat at the head of the table and slowly stroked his long white Santa Claus beard. He greeted Tim and I and blessed us with the sign of the cross as we too kissed his plump hand. Everyone waited for him to speak, careful, very careful to make him feel as respected as possible.

"You walked here from Constantinople. That is a very hard task. The two of you must be good men, only a good man can do something like that. You are Catholics though, if you were Orthodox you would be even better!" and the bishop burst out laughing as did everyone else at the table. "Catholics were the same religion as we were before." "Yes, we know Father, Tim and I really don't really care about the pope though. We don't really care too much about dogma at all. I don't think its important how you pray as long as you do good." "Yes, my son, that is the most important thing but the way you pray is also important and the right way is written in the Bible..." and so the bishop and I entered a memorable teological discussion which lasted hours...

"You know," began the bishop towards the end of the evening "I understand why you walk and I know how difficult it is. When I was a student I walked across Georgia for nearly two months. I know how tired you are at the end of the day and how difficult it is to share your soul with others then...I know that's what you do..." He did seem to understand as he looked at me with his mysterious eyes. I wondered if he too had only two pairs of socks while he walked and if he washed them by hand in hotel and gas station bathrooms. Perhaps he was really a holy man as everyone at the table thought him to be....then Father Basili shows me an application on the bishop's iPhone - a candle appears which you put out by blowing on the screen..."Somehow holy men don't have iphones," I think to myself....but what does make a man "holy" and what does this word mean at all? I had a lot of time to think about this and other teological ideas waiting for Tim to get better...Conclusions? Personal and hard to explain...