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......"
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