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...
hey man. great adventure is coming to an end..:-)) write to me, met milena, she said u'll be in st, wanna c u b4 u go! my email is bulic.iva@gmail.com
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