"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...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
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...
"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...
Thursday, January 21, 2010
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...
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...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
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...
Friday, January 8, 2010
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!"
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!"
Thursday, January 7, 2010
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......"
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
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...
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...
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