"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..."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment