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...
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Friday, December 25, 2009
Men of Faith part 2
"Dzigarson (good-hearted person)" Levani was gladly filling my shot glass with more honey schnapps. After the birthday celebration we found ourselves at his and Father Ermo's house and were introduced to his amazing family - his good-humored wife, and his three children: Giorgi, Luka and Nini who striked me as one of the most content families I had ever met.
"It is not important if you are a Catholic, an Orthodox or even a Muslim. If you have a good heart and do good, God loves you and will bestowe you with his favor. Although Orthodox Christianity is the oldest and purest form of worshipping Christ, rituals are not as important as deeds. God listens to you as he does me and he knows what is inside of you..."
I talked with Father Ermo well into the night and after getting to know this tolerant and enlightened man I understood how it was possible that his children could be so beautiful and peaceful. Little Giorgi, a ten-year old black haired boy, gave me an affecionate hug and left for bed, he was followed by his somewhat younger brother Luka - their eyes, so innocent, so tender, nothing fake about their love for one another, not a mundane routine before going to bed but honest emotions. I felt the harmony of their family and it felt good - the thought of settling and building such a loving community raced through my head again as it had many times during these four months of walking, questioning and learning. Perhaps my time would come soon...
Laying in a warm bed I thought about the cold outside, how lucky we were to have found such a good man. Again "chance" had brought us together with a gentle person willing to share, to teach and to learn. The birthday feast, the simple yet tastey dishes of beans, mushrooms, fried fish, the tamada, the sense of community and brotherly love shared by the Georgians that evening all reminded me of the early Christians, the ancient followers of Christ who in my opinion were more like hippies than most of the conservative leaders representing this denomination today...
Tim was quiet that morning as he accompanied me to my first Orthodox mass - conducted by our host Father Ermo. The two hour celebration of Christ was interesting to say the least. The women wore scarfs on their heads out of respect towards God as do the Muslim women in mosques. The long-bearded priests chanted endlessly as Father Ermo blessed the golden/silver icons of Christ, the Virgin Mary and other saints with potent incense and smoke. The congregation chanted along with the priests at times and repeatedly made the sign of the cross with three fingers from the right to the left as it the ancient way. Often they kneeled down to the hard marble floor to kiss the ground or to touch their foreheads to it - again strinkingly similar to the Muslim customs I had witnessed in Turkey. Compared to Western Christian services Orhtodox masses were a marathon of prayer, reflection and penatence - no sitting, no breaks, constantly chanting, praying and at times singing.
"I don't feel so good," I turn to hear Tim say before he makes his way out of church. People look at him, at me, as they had been doing the entire time - asking themselves what we were doing there and why we weren't bowing or making the sign of the cross, or why we had not kissed the central icon on our way in?
Towards the end of the gruelling ritual, the vladika (something like a bishop) appears behind the curtain on the altar. He is a large, round-bellied man with white hair and beard. He is ordained in a golden robe and a large hat with a golden cross on top of it. As he struts to a throne-like chair in the middle of the church the people seem to hold their breath. He blesses them by touching their heads and spreading incense and smoke around. It was as if the people felt that God himself had entered the room....Giorgi, a young assistant to Father Ermo, comes up to me and tells me that he would take me to be blessed by the bishop and I soon find myself cutting in line to have the vladika draw a cross on my forehead with some sweet smelling ointment as I kiss his hand...
As the mass finishes Tim returns and appears paler than usual. "You OK man?" "I feel like I'm coming down with something. I might have a cold." "Shit" I thought to myself "Tim was always getting sick and after spending so much time in Batumi I really didn't want to be stuck in Ozurgeti. We were close to Tbilisi, ten days of walk away, and I was eager to finish this, to start getting back to the "civilian" life, to start implementating some of the things I had learned along the way, to find out how much I had changed, but it was going to be a while before that happened....unfortunately....
After mass, Father Ermo approaches us:"Father Basili insists that you spend a day at his place"....and so Tim and I were transported from one loving home to another...a home we would get to know very well...
"It is not important if you are a Catholic, an Orthodox or even a Muslim. If you have a good heart and do good, God loves you and will bestowe you with his favor. Although Orthodox Christianity is the oldest and purest form of worshipping Christ, rituals are not as important as deeds. God listens to you as he does me and he knows what is inside of you..."
I talked with Father Ermo well into the night and after getting to know this tolerant and enlightened man I understood how it was possible that his children could be so beautiful and peaceful. Little Giorgi, a ten-year old black haired boy, gave me an affecionate hug and left for bed, he was followed by his somewhat younger brother Luka - their eyes, so innocent, so tender, nothing fake about their love for one another, not a mundane routine before going to bed but honest emotions. I felt the harmony of their family and it felt good - the thought of settling and building such a loving community raced through my head again as it had many times during these four months of walking, questioning and learning. Perhaps my time would come soon...
Laying in a warm bed I thought about the cold outside, how lucky we were to have found such a good man. Again "chance" had brought us together with a gentle person willing to share, to teach and to learn. The birthday feast, the simple yet tastey dishes of beans, mushrooms, fried fish, the tamada, the sense of community and brotherly love shared by the Georgians that evening all reminded me of the early Christians, the ancient followers of Christ who in my opinion were more like hippies than most of the conservative leaders representing this denomination today...
Tim was quiet that morning as he accompanied me to my first Orthodox mass - conducted by our host Father Ermo. The two hour celebration of Christ was interesting to say the least. The women wore scarfs on their heads out of respect towards God as do the Muslim women in mosques. The long-bearded priests chanted endlessly as Father Ermo blessed the golden/silver icons of Christ, the Virgin Mary and other saints with potent incense and smoke. The congregation chanted along with the priests at times and repeatedly made the sign of the cross with three fingers from the right to the left as it the ancient way. Often they kneeled down to the hard marble floor to kiss the ground or to touch their foreheads to it - again strinkingly similar to the Muslim customs I had witnessed in Turkey. Compared to Western Christian services Orhtodox masses were a marathon of prayer, reflection and penatence - no sitting, no breaks, constantly chanting, praying and at times singing.
"I don't feel so good," I turn to hear Tim say before he makes his way out of church. People look at him, at me, as they had been doing the entire time - asking themselves what we were doing there and why we weren't bowing or making the sign of the cross, or why we had not kissed the central icon on our way in?
Towards the end of the gruelling ritual, the vladika (something like a bishop) appears behind the curtain on the altar. He is a large, round-bellied man with white hair and beard. He is ordained in a golden robe and a large hat with a golden cross on top of it. As he struts to a throne-like chair in the middle of the church the people seem to hold their breath. He blesses them by touching their heads and spreading incense and smoke around. It was as if the people felt that God himself had entered the room....Giorgi, a young assistant to Father Ermo, comes up to me and tells me that he would take me to be blessed by the bishop and I soon find myself cutting in line to have the vladika draw a cross on my forehead with some sweet smelling ointment as I kiss his hand...
As the mass finishes Tim returns and appears paler than usual. "You OK man?" "I feel like I'm coming down with something. I might have a cold." "Shit" I thought to myself "Tim was always getting sick and after spending so much time in Batumi I really didn't want to be stuck in Ozurgeti. We were close to Tbilisi, ten days of walk away, and I was eager to finish this, to start getting back to the "civilian" life, to start implementating some of the things I had learned along the way, to find out how much I had changed, but it was going to be a while before that happened....unfortunately....
After mass, Father Ermo approaches us:"Father Basili insists that you spend a day at his place"....and so Tim and I were transported from one loving home to another...a home we would get to know very well...
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Men of Faith part 1
"I know how you feel. Don't worry." Here we were, standing in front of an Orthodox church in the center of Ozurgeti, and I was about to enter and ask if they could find us a place to stay. I didn't feel comfortable at all, I had no idea how to even act in an Orthodox church but Tim was good at reassuring me. The walk from Kobuleti to Ozurgeti was long and I was tired - speaking Russian and explaining our story to some priests was the last thing I wanted to do...but we needed a place to stay and we had no other option...
"We have come from far away, on foot," I manage to communicate to the lady selling memorablia behind a counter in the icon-filled church. "I would like to talk to a priest please." I had my hat in my hand and I was nervous as a black-bearded priest approached. He had a mean look on his face and didn't seem very holy to me at all. I greeted him as kindly as I knew how and shook his hand as he gave me a suspicious look. Tim, more aware of protocol, followed by kissing and placing his forehead on the priest's hand (as is the custom in the Orthodox Church). We step outside and I begin to explain what we were doing. "You can't sleep inside the church. You can sleep out here." Temperatures were reaching 0 in the evenings and sleeping outside was no option, yet the priest had no sympathetic ear for us. "Well, I tried my best," I thought to myself as the realization that we had no place to sleep started sinking in. Tim and I grabbed our backpacks and were about to leave when we were greeed by a smiling face - Father Ermolaus (Ermo).
"You two, will be guests in my home," said the slim red-haired man. I make a move as to kiss his hand yet he assures me there is no need. "You're not Orhtodox are you?" "No father, my friend Tim and I were raised Catholics...."
After a few minutes of waiting in the candle lit church and a few candies from the lady behind the counter, Father Ermo came and showed us to his car where we were greeted by his father, a slim, white-haired man named Levani. Before we knew it we were speedying away towards a friend of Father Ermo's where we would join a birthday celebration - the first of many Georgian feasts I would experience over the course of the next few days.
"He sure drives fast for a priest!" Father Ermo was dodging pedestrains left and right as he raced his car down the muddy village road. Levani was intrigued by our story and bombarded me with an array of questions and I did my best to answer all of them yet I was exhausted from the day's walk....it seemed the road was taking more and more out of me.....
The birthday crowd was cheerful as we entered yet they had not partaken of any of the tasty dishes piled up on top of each other on the long table in the living room. Although another priest, Father Basili was present, they all waited for Father Ermo to bless the food and wine. Everyone greeted us cordially and Father Basili, a thin bearded round priest, took to me soon as we exchanged jokes, anecdotes and many kind words.
"I would like to say a toast for you, our guests from Croatia and France. Us Georgians believe guests are gifts from God, may God bless you with health and safe journeys!" Father Ermo was a wise man and made a great Tamada (toastmaster). His toasts were morsels of spiritual instruction, philosophical quips and in a way mini-prayers. The crowd of 30 or so men stood on their feet and drank to Tim and I's health and we drank down our glasses of wine together. Unfortunately for Tim the toast did not turn out to be true, for his health was deteriorating and would keep us in Ozurgeti for an unexpectedly long time, giving me an opportunity to learn about Orthodox Christianity and to even act as an assistant to a priest...
"We have come from far away, on foot," I manage to communicate to the lady selling memorablia behind a counter in the icon-filled church. "I would like to talk to a priest please." I had my hat in my hand and I was nervous as a black-bearded priest approached. He had a mean look on his face and didn't seem very holy to me at all. I greeted him as kindly as I knew how and shook his hand as he gave me a suspicious look. Tim, more aware of protocol, followed by kissing and placing his forehead on the priest's hand (as is the custom in the Orthodox Church). We step outside and I begin to explain what we were doing. "You can't sleep inside the church. You can sleep out here." Temperatures were reaching 0 in the evenings and sleeping outside was no option, yet the priest had no sympathetic ear for us. "Well, I tried my best," I thought to myself as the realization that we had no place to sleep started sinking in. Tim and I grabbed our backpacks and were about to leave when we were greeed by a smiling face - Father Ermolaus (Ermo).
"You two, will be guests in my home," said the slim red-haired man. I make a move as to kiss his hand yet he assures me there is no need. "You're not Orhtodox are you?" "No father, my friend Tim and I were raised Catholics...."
After a few minutes of waiting in the candle lit church and a few candies from the lady behind the counter, Father Ermo came and showed us to his car where we were greeted by his father, a slim, white-haired man named Levani. Before we knew it we were speedying away towards a friend of Father Ermo's where we would join a birthday celebration - the first of many Georgian feasts I would experience over the course of the next few days.
"He sure drives fast for a priest!" Father Ermo was dodging pedestrains left and right as he raced his car down the muddy village road. Levani was intrigued by our story and bombarded me with an array of questions and I did my best to answer all of them yet I was exhausted from the day's walk....it seemed the road was taking more and more out of me.....
The birthday crowd was cheerful as we entered yet they had not partaken of any of the tasty dishes piled up on top of each other on the long table in the living room. Although another priest, Father Basili was present, they all waited for Father Ermo to bless the food and wine. Everyone greeted us cordially and Father Basili, a thin bearded round priest, took to me soon as we exchanged jokes, anecdotes and many kind words.
"I would like to say a toast for you, our guests from Croatia and France. Us Georgians believe guests are gifts from God, may God bless you with health and safe journeys!" Father Ermo was a wise man and made a great Tamada (toastmaster). His toasts were morsels of spiritual instruction, philosophical quips and in a way mini-prayers. The crowd of 30 or so men stood on their feet and drank to Tim and I's health and we drank down our glasses of wine together. Unfortunately for Tim the toast did not turn out to be true, for his health was deteriorating and would keep us in Ozurgeti for an unexpectedly long time, giving me an opportunity to learn about Orthodox Christianity and to even act as an assistant to a priest...
Monday, December 21, 2009
Chaja Nights
After a few days with Levani, Petra and Toto, Tim and I were hosted by Irakli the philosopher. At the moment Irakli lives with his mother in a small but warm apartment in the center of Batumi which, like all of the homes I had entered in Georgia, seemed in a way antique - the furniture, statuettes, even curtains seemed to be from a more prosperous time, one of Soviet wealth, before the war, before the financial crisis. Irakli's collection of Kant, Hegel, Nietzche and Socrates all kept him company in his sanctuary of rock and roll, classic literature and fine chaja. He made a good host and the three of us (along with some of his friends) spent two days enjoying the grape brandy of Georgia and watching classic rock videos on his computer. After sobering up we decided to split for Kobuleti, the next town on our way. Irakli had some friends there - Giorgi (not to be confused with his name sake from Batumi) and Levani (again not the same as from Batumi!), and agreed to meet us there in the evening. Tim and I left early and unfortunately didn't get around to saying good-bye to Zura, Petra, Giorgi, and Levani, all of whom were of great help to us, but I hope our paths cross again....
"I think I was made for this", I turn back to say to Tim as we exit Batumi and take one last look at the ships in the port. It felt good to be back on the road and after getting my first taste of Georgia I was thirsty for more. The road was tough to Kobuleti - narrow, uneven and with many sharp turns which made walking dangerous, but it was sunny and the large old pine trees along the way kept me in good spirits.
"Hey guys!! Over here!!" It was Irakli and he had found us in Kobuleti. We had asked a woman working in a shop to use her phone but he did not answer and we were worried. It was late and the city was dead. The old 19 century buildings were grey and uninviting and the city seemed lonely to me - hearing Irakli call us from down the street was salvation! We soon found ourselves at Giorgi's house with some chaja in our belly and smiles on our faces. Tired from our long walk and our bodies adjusting again to the abuse we retired early but continued our merry company the next day, first with Giorgi in the morning and with Levani in the afternoon.
"I don't think we should be drinking so much nigger..." Tim was right and he knew we would pay later for the chaja, beer and wine but I didn't care. It felt great to be back to my old ways, to be in good drunken company and to let myself go. The mental and spritual strains of the walk were the real problem for me but for Tim the troubles were more of a physical nature and I was soon to learn in how bad of a shape he was in....
"Thanks for the fried fish, the great wine and for the magnificent hospitality Levani." Although at first I had the feeling that he was cold and aloof, Levani turned out to be a great guy. We had spent a great deal of the evening learning about each others countries and I had grown fond of him quickly. I could tell why Irakli had made friends with him, as well as with Giorgi who was an amazingly generous host as well.
"I plan on going to India in a month but I'll see you guys in Tbilisi before I leave." Irakli planned on selling his car and hitch-hiking to India, which after walking across Turkey didn't seem like a crazy idea at all, in fact I was almost sure he would make it. "Doesn't seem very far to India anymore, we've crossed a lot of country." Tim was right, not even China seemed unreachable at that time, yet in a few days it would seem a distant dream, we were about to enter some hard days....of doubt, of pain, of peril....
"I think I was made for this", I turn back to say to Tim as we exit Batumi and take one last look at the ships in the port. It felt good to be back on the road and after getting my first taste of Georgia I was thirsty for more. The road was tough to Kobuleti - narrow, uneven and with many sharp turns which made walking dangerous, but it was sunny and the large old pine trees along the way kept me in good spirits.
"Hey guys!! Over here!!" It was Irakli and he had found us in Kobuleti. We had asked a woman working in a shop to use her phone but he did not answer and we were worried. It was late and the city was dead. The old 19 century buildings were grey and uninviting and the city seemed lonely to me - hearing Irakli call us from down the street was salvation! We soon found ourselves at Giorgi's house with some chaja in our belly and smiles on our faces. Tired from our long walk and our bodies adjusting again to the abuse we retired early but continued our merry company the next day, first with Giorgi in the morning and with Levani in the afternoon.
"I don't think we should be drinking so much nigger..." Tim was right and he knew we would pay later for the chaja, beer and wine but I didn't care. It felt great to be back to my old ways, to be in good drunken company and to let myself go. The mental and spritual strains of the walk were the real problem for me but for Tim the troubles were more of a physical nature and I was soon to learn in how bad of a shape he was in....
"Thanks for the fried fish, the great wine and for the magnificent hospitality Levani." Although at first I had the feeling that he was cold and aloof, Levani turned out to be a great guy. We had spent a great deal of the evening learning about each others countries and I had grown fond of him quickly. I could tell why Irakli had made friends with him, as well as with Giorgi who was an amazingly generous host as well.
"I plan on going to India in a month but I'll see you guys in Tbilisi before I leave." Irakli planned on selling his car and hitch-hiking to India, which after walking across Turkey didn't seem like a crazy idea at all, in fact I was almost sure he would make it. "Doesn't seem very far to India anymore, we've crossed a lot of country." Tim was right, not even China seemed unreachable at that time, yet in a few days it would seem a distant dream, we were about to enter some hard days....of doubt, of pain, of peril....
Monday, December 14, 2009
New Culture, New Friends
''The water seems clearer on this side of the border...'' It was a warm and sunny day as we walked our first day in Georgia and everything seemed different than what we were accustomed to. Not far from our 'hotel' we came across a large monument to St. Andrew, the First-Called, the first of many prophets and saints who arrived in Georgia, around 1 A.D. After Armenia, Georgia was the oldest Christian state in Europe and its countryside and cities are decorated with ancient churches and structures which I was eager to discover. In a way everything about this country seemed ancient to me...
"Tbilisi, 380km" the sign above us read as we passed through the small town of Gonio on our way towards Batumi. Open-eyed we marvelled at the novelties around us- the signs written in the undecipherable Georgian alphabet (საქართველო), the simplistic communist mixed with the lavish classic Georgian architecture, the physical features of the people - white skin tone, black hair and dominant noses; everything was unfamiliar and I was ready to learn. After having our last lunch at a Turkish restaurant (many Turks live in and around Batumi), and experiencing their hospitality one more time (the meal was free of course), we walked a few hours and reached the city of Batumi.
Tired old women sitting on small wooden stools selling cigarettes (at 30 cents a pack!), drab rain-stained communist concrete buildings, the sad empty shelves of the poorly stocked shops and alcohol, bet shops and exchange offices everywhere...yet many majestic 200-300 year old buildings, museums and a university as well as newly erected fountains, squares and tourist attractions such as a collossal ferris wheel, gave me the feeling that this city has been going through some really tough times but its spirit had not been broken...
"The beer is only 40 cents! God help us!" The quiet little restaurant with its old cyrilic 'beer' sign in the window, was our favorite spot while in Batumi - mostly due to its attractive prices but also because the friendly middle-aged women who worked there were good at understanding my Russian. We had also found another cheap place which only served the same stew everyday. The plain barley and ground beef was not the tastiest of meals but it was a bargain. The men gathered there were always drunk (a common sight throughout the country at any time of the day) and I could smell the cheap vodka on their breaths.
"One soup, please"...."Was it pronounced odin or adin", I couldn't even say 'one' properly. An elderly man eating alone in the corner lifts his head up from his humble meal and asks in English where we were from. "Croatia, eh? (In Croatian) Well, how are you friend? Welcome!" The man was a former sailor, now a master navigator and naval professor named Zura who had picked up some Croatian at the shipyards of the former Yugoslavia during his sailing days . We joined him at his table and after getting to know this cheerful and kind old man we accepted his invitation and accompanied him to his ship, the Elita for some "chaja" (j as in jade) - home-made Georgian grape brandy.
"This next toast is for your parents. Although I've never met them I'm sure they are great people since they have such great sons. I am thankful to them for giving you to this world, so that I may meet you." We were all on our feet in the ship's navigation room - maps spread out everywhere and various sailing equipment such as buoys and life vests hung from the walls. The chaja had turned our faces red and our spirits merry. Zura was teaching us about "tamada", the intricate Georgian toasting tradition. He was the toastmaster and we had reached the toast to our parents. Children and grandchildren would be next. As the ship rocked gently to the calm Black Sea waves, we hugged and kissed each other (once on the cheek as is the custom here) and even sang a few songs (to my amazement Zura knew some Croatian songs by Mate Miso Kovac!). We left the ship late, our arms around each others necks, staggering drunkenly to and fro through the muddy streets of Batumi, nothing but the happiness of meeting a new friend in our hearts.
"My brothers, I am so happy to meet you. You are from France, you are from Croatia and I am from Georgia but we are all brothers!" After a final beer at our spot and a few songs and laughs with the waitresses, I helped my new friend into an old Russian taxi and sent him home to his wife. Tim and I retired to our hotel, glad to have met our first Georgian friend, one of many...
The next day we hung out with Petra, a really cool Hungarian girl we met through the couchsurfing web service. We waited for her in the city center next to a large statue of Medea (from the Greek legend) holding the golden fleece, which overlooked a large fountain that spouts out water to the rhytm of music ranging from Mozart to Kusturica. The whole square felt very European and familiar to me...Petra was very welcoming and took us for a walk around the center and for some Turkish coffee - back to the coffee culture, no more tea!! I found out that she is an anthropologist who abandoned her profession and is now living with her boyfriend Giorgi (a theater director) in Batumi although she travelled the world and had lived in many interesting places - Australia, Peru, Israel, to name a few. We met Giorgi and their friend (and now ours) Levani the next day.
"Lets go to a friend's house", suggested the clean-cut dentist turned cultural/political event planner named Levani. He and Tim had hit it off quickly due to Levani's excellent French skills and all-around good qualities. Giorgi and I tried as best as we could to communicate in Russian but I was far from being at a conversational level and still needed Petra's help...
The friend who hosted us turned out to be Toto, a novelist and sports commentator who was now forced to work as an accountant at a Turkish factory near Batumi. Such was the case with many Georgians - the recent war, the closed border with their large menacing neighbor Russia and the financial crisis pushed many highly-educated individuals into fields they weren't happy to be in. In general Georgia felt packed with intellectuals...
"Do you guys like The Cure?", Irakli (Heraclitus in Georgian), was a self-described philosopher and very comical character. He sat next to us and began inquiring about our tastes in music, philosophy, and literature. "The Doors?", " Jean Paul Satre?" It was great to talk about these topics, something we had not done much of during our stay in Turkey.
"My boss is a nigger, I hate the nigger", loudly announced a friend of our Batumi hosts. "I don't hate black people," replied Irakli as he made a peace sign with his fingers, "Sex, drugs and rock and roll, peace!" Tim and I offered to get some more beer and Irakli joined us. A young virgin-like girl is in the shop and Irakli is in the mood for a joke. As she is leaving he gently takes some of her hair in his hand and smells it. She turns red, giggles and leaves as Tim, I and the lady behind the counter burst out laughing. "Zieg heil!", Irakli salutes the clerk with a click of his shoes and an arm raised in mock Nazi salute and we exit. "You guys like punk, don't you?" "Yes we do Irakli", I reply, "and we like you!" After some marinated fish, a sea of beer and a lot of great conversation we leave Toto's place after agreeing that Petra and Giorgi would take me in the next day and Tim would sleep at Toto's....we now had many friends in Batumi and I was beginning to feel at home here...
"Tbilisi, 380km" the sign above us read as we passed through the small town of Gonio on our way towards Batumi. Open-eyed we marvelled at the novelties around us- the signs written in the undecipherable Georgian alphabet (საქართველო), the simplistic communist mixed with the lavish classic Georgian architecture, the physical features of the people - white skin tone, black hair and dominant noses; everything was unfamiliar and I was ready to learn. After having our last lunch at a Turkish restaurant (many Turks live in and around Batumi), and experiencing their hospitality one more time (the meal was free of course), we walked a few hours and reached the city of Batumi.
Tired old women sitting on small wooden stools selling cigarettes (at 30 cents a pack!), drab rain-stained communist concrete buildings, the sad empty shelves of the poorly stocked shops and alcohol, bet shops and exchange offices everywhere...yet many majestic 200-300 year old buildings, museums and a university as well as newly erected fountains, squares and tourist attractions such as a collossal ferris wheel, gave me the feeling that this city has been going through some really tough times but its spirit had not been broken...
"The beer is only 40 cents! God help us!" The quiet little restaurant with its old cyrilic 'beer' sign in the window, was our favorite spot while in Batumi - mostly due to its attractive prices but also because the friendly middle-aged women who worked there were good at understanding my Russian. We had also found another cheap place which only served the same stew everyday. The plain barley and ground beef was not the tastiest of meals but it was a bargain. The men gathered there were always drunk (a common sight throughout the country at any time of the day) and I could smell the cheap vodka on their breaths.
"One soup, please"...."Was it pronounced odin or adin", I couldn't even say 'one' properly. An elderly man eating alone in the corner lifts his head up from his humble meal and asks in English where we were from. "Croatia, eh? (In Croatian) Well, how are you friend? Welcome!" The man was a former sailor, now a master navigator and naval professor named Zura who had picked up some Croatian at the shipyards of the former Yugoslavia during his sailing days . We joined him at his table and after getting to know this cheerful and kind old man we accepted his invitation and accompanied him to his ship, the Elita for some "chaja" (j as in jade) - home-made Georgian grape brandy.
"This next toast is for your parents. Although I've never met them I'm sure they are great people since they have such great sons. I am thankful to them for giving you to this world, so that I may meet you." We were all on our feet in the ship's navigation room - maps spread out everywhere and various sailing equipment such as buoys and life vests hung from the walls. The chaja had turned our faces red and our spirits merry. Zura was teaching us about "tamada", the intricate Georgian toasting tradition. He was the toastmaster and we had reached the toast to our parents. Children and grandchildren would be next. As the ship rocked gently to the calm Black Sea waves, we hugged and kissed each other (once on the cheek as is the custom here) and even sang a few songs (to my amazement Zura knew some Croatian songs by Mate Miso Kovac!). We left the ship late, our arms around each others necks, staggering drunkenly to and fro through the muddy streets of Batumi, nothing but the happiness of meeting a new friend in our hearts.
"My brothers, I am so happy to meet you. You are from France, you are from Croatia and I am from Georgia but we are all brothers!" After a final beer at our spot and a few songs and laughs with the waitresses, I helped my new friend into an old Russian taxi and sent him home to his wife. Tim and I retired to our hotel, glad to have met our first Georgian friend, one of many...
The next day we hung out with Petra, a really cool Hungarian girl we met through the couchsurfing web service. We waited for her in the city center next to a large statue of Medea (from the Greek legend) holding the golden fleece, which overlooked a large fountain that spouts out water to the rhytm of music ranging from Mozart to Kusturica. The whole square felt very European and familiar to me...Petra was very welcoming and took us for a walk around the center and for some Turkish coffee - back to the coffee culture, no more tea!! I found out that she is an anthropologist who abandoned her profession and is now living with her boyfriend Giorgi (a theater director) in Batumi although she travelled the world and had lived in many interesting places - Australia, Peru, Israel, to name a few. We met Giorgi and their friend (and now ours) Levani the next day.
"Lets go to a friend's house", suggested the clean-cut dentist turned cultural/political event planner named Levani. He and Tim had hit it off quickly due to Levani's excellent French skills and all-around good qualities. Giorgi and I tried as best as we could to communicate in Russian but I was far from being at a conversational level and still needed Petra's help...
The friend who hosted us turned out to be Toto, a novelist and sports commentator who was now forced to work as an accountant at a Turkish factory near Batumi. Such was the case with many Georgians - the recent war, the closed border with their large menacing neighbor Russia and the financial crisis pushed many highly-educated individuals into fields they weren't happy to be in. In general Georgia felt packed with intellectuals...
"Do you guys like The Cure?", Irakli (Heraclitus in Georgian), was a self-described philosopher and very comical character. He sat next to us and began inquiring about our tastes in music, philosophy, and literature. "The Doors?", " Jean Paul Satre?" It was great to talk about these topics, something we had not done much of during our stay in Turkey.
"My boss is a nigger, I hate the nigger", loudly announced a friend of our Batumi hosts. "I don't hate black people," replied Irakli as he made a peace sign with his fingers, "Sex, drugs and rock and roll, peace!" Tim and I offered to get some more beer and Irakli joined us. A young virgin-like girl is in the shop and Irakli is in the mood for a joke. As she is leaving he gently takes some of her hair in his hand and smells it. She turns red, giggles and leaves as Tim, I and the lady behind the counter burst out laughing. "Zieg heil!", Irakli salutes the clerk with a click of his shoes and an arm raised in mock Nazi salute and we exit. "You guys like punk, don't you?" "Yes we do Irakli", I reply, "and we like you!" After some marinated fish, a sea of beer and a lot of great conversation we leave Toto's place after agreeing that Petra and Giorgi would take me in the next day and Tim would sleep at Toto's....we now had many friends in Batumi and I was beginning to feel at home here...
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Georgia, Are You Ready to Rock?!!!
Getting a five-year ban from Turkey wasn't as painful as I anticipated. A small stamp in my passport and a sad explanation from a cute border policewoman and I was on my way. It really was my fault for not informing myself about visa regulations earlier but I just assumed it would be OK. Not very smart but I guess I could always come and visit my many Turkish friends with a Croatian or Bosnian passport (having three citizenships has its advantages); I am sure I will be back - I miss Turkey already.
With my heart still pumping fast from the excitement of entering Georgia, I placed my first steps on Caucasian soil. A large white flag with red crosses waved in the night wind above the northern side of the border. I had made it - the small former Soviet republic of Georgia, my obssessive dream for the past 3 months, had become a reality. The guards welcomed us warmly in Georgian, Turkish and even Russian, and Tim and I entered a new world. We were newborns again, facing the tasks of learning to communicate with the people, how to eat and drink, how to exist in their universe...
'Two beers please, and some khachapuri (cheese filled pastry)'', my first words in the new land. Tim and I sat in front of a little shop near the border and polished off some great Natakhtari beer, which to our delight only cost about 70 euro cents! Everything seemed new and exciting. The smells, the language, the old Russian 'Lada's and other cars passing by....not to mention that alcohol was sold in the stores and by women nonetheless! We bumped into some Turks on a weekend visit to Batumi, or next destination. It was weird to feel so connected to them, and it felt great to be called 'abe' (brother) again. We missed the sense of safety we had learned to feel in Turkey. We had no idea how safe Georgia would be or how hospitable the locals were. Many Turks had warned us about crime in Batumi but we always took this kind of information with a grain of salt. People always seem to think that the area, region or country next to theirs was more dangerous and less friendly. We had been warned about Sivas from the inhabitants of the Ankara area and the locals of Sivas warned us about the Black Sea which in turn warned us about Georgia! Luckily though, they were all wrong about each other, the people of each area were great - people in general are good, more good than most can believe.
Tired from the day's walk and the wait at the border Tim and I decide to ask the price of a road-side hotel near the border. I open the thin wooden door and stop dead in my tracks. It was as if I was slapped by culture shock - four provocatively dressed women playing cards with a young tough-looking man in what looked to be a bar or restaurant, not a Turkish scene at all! An intoxicated old man wakes up from a cot behind the bar and I bargain with him for a room in Russian. A pretty young girl shows us to our quarters after we settle a price and both Tim and I are on our toes - we have no idea how safe we are, especially in this 'hotel' - another brothel for lonely Turkish men from across the border. I slept with one eye open that night, the door locked and my walking stick and Bursa knife close by. In the morning we woke and went to the bar for coffee. One of the women served us as some Russian pop played over a pair of good speakers. Her small curly dog kept yapping next to the bar and I tried to calm him down to no avail. She saw me and gave me a friendly innocent smile. It was then that I got my first good feeling about this ancient nation, I could sense I had over-exaggerated about the danger and I knew we were in for a good time....
With my heart still pumping fast from the excitement of entering Georgia, I placed my first steps on Caucasian soil. A large white flag with red crosses waved in the night wind above the northern side of the border. I had made it - the small former Soviet republic of Georgia, my obssessive dream for the past 3 months, had become a reality. The guards welcomed us warmly in Georgian, Turkish and even Russian, and Tim and I entered a new world. We were newborns again, facing the tasks of learning to communicate with the people, how to eat and drink, how to exist in their universe...
'Two beers please, and some khachapuri (cheese filled pastry)'', my first words in the new land. Tim and I sat in front of a little shop near the border and polished off some great Natakhtari beer, which to our delight only cost about 70 euro cents! Everything seemed new and exciting. The smells, the language, the old Russian 'Lada's and other cars passing by....not to mention that alcohol was sold in the stores and by women nonetheless! We bumped into some Turks on a weekend visit to Batumi, or next destination. It was weird to feel so connected to them, and it felt great to be called 'abe' (brother) again. We missed the sense of safety we had learned to feel in Turkey. We had no idea how safe Georgia would be or how hospitable the locals were. Many Turks had warned us about crime in Batumi but we always took this kind of information with a grain of salt. People always seem to think that the area, region or country next to theirs was more dangerous and less friendly. We had been warned about Sivas from the inhabitants of the Ankara area and the locals of Sivas warned us about the Black Sea which in turn warned us about Georgia! Luckily though, they were all wrong about each other, the people of each area were great - people in general are good, more good than most can believe.
Tired from the day's walk and the wait at the border Tim and I decide to ask the price of a road-side hotel near the border. I open the thin wooden door and stop dead in my tracks. It was as if I was slapped by culture shock - four provocatively dressed women playing cards with a young tough-looking man in what looked to be a bar or restaurant, not a Turkish scene at all! An intoxicated old man wakes up from a cot behind the bar and I bargain with him for a room in Russian. A pretty young girl shows us to our quarters after we settle a price and both Tim and I are on our toes - we have no idea how safe we are, especially in this 'hotel' - another brothel for lonely Turkish men from across the border. I slept with one eye open that night, the door locked and my walking stick and Bursa knife close by. In the morning we woke and went to the bar for coffee. One of the women served us as some Russian pop played over a pair of good speakers. Her small curly dog kept yapping next to the bar and I tried to calm him down to no avail. She saw me and gave me a friendly innocent smile. It was then that I got my first good feeling about this ancient nation, I could sense I had over-exaggerated about the danger and I knew we were in for a good time....
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Saying Good-bye to Turkey...
'Yes, we left Hopa this morning sir,' Tim explains over the phone. ''We were taken in by a kind man named Osman and slept at his gas station. We met him at the Ogretmen evi {Teachers House}.'' It was the Rize police again. They wanted to know where we were and where we had slept the night before. They were polite and we had grown accustomed to talking with the police at least once a day. Serdar and his partner had said good-bye to us after we left their county and had handed us over to their colleagues in Trabzon who had handed us over to their colleagues in Rize and so on all the way to Georgia. We might have been followed, who knows, but we didn't mind the phone calls. Nobody stopped us from walking and that was the important thing.
"It always rains in Rize,'' ''Only 69 days of sun in Rize.'' We had been warned many times but we hoped that our good luck with the weather would hold up. It really would have been a miracle though if it had not rained in Rize, a city famous for percipitation and tea production. We were soaked to the bone when we finally made it and were in no hurry to continue until we dried out after a few days. We had grown tired and were slow, the three months of walking had taken their toll and I felt a chronic tiredness which even a 15 hour sleep could not shake off. We had to be smart and make it to Batumi, Georgia soon and rest for at least a week. We crossed more towns along the Black Sea and our steps were slow and silent. The sea was calming and we were both preparing ourselves to leave Turkey - the great country which had shown us so much hospitality...a place I will always cherish and miss...a nation of 'brothers' and a culture which now flowed in my blood...
"This is a brothel too nigger.'' It was no surprise, Ardesen, Arhavi and Hopa, the last cities in Turkey towards the Georgian border were infested with prostitution, crappy bars and liquor stores. We were in Hopa, only a mere 30 km from Georgia and it felt like I was in a Turkish version of Las Vegas, or a Laz version to be precise, since the inhabitants of this area were not Turks at all but belonged to an ancient people - the Laz, who spoke their own language and did not share any physical features with their Turkish countrymen. They were very European in appearance but dressed in pointy shoes and fake Armani jeans like Turks do. The women were more open here as well and I was surprised to see them look me in the eyes. We were entering a new culture and I was excited.
"Nyet" I replied in Russian to the three Georgian prostitutes at the door. I was tired and in no mood to entertain money-hungry hookers. "I just want to sleep, nye zena {no women].'' I was starting to use the Russian I had begun to learn the week before. Unfortunately I would use it mainly for warting off dirty old Georgian prostitutes. It was late and I noticed Tim tossing and turning in bed. He was also having a hard time falling asleep. We would cross into Georgia tomorrow and we were excited. We had no idea what would await us and a million thoughts were racing through my head. I also anticipated some problems with my visa which had probably expired and had no idea what would happen at the border. "Lets get a beer man.'' And so we dressed, got some Efes Pilsen and sat down on a Turkish beach for the last time.
We crossed the second tunnel towards the border. My heart was pounding hard as I walked and thought about all the great people I had met on my trip - Onur in Gebze, Omer the baker in Duzce, Baris in Istanbul, Franz, Halil bey, the muhtars, Mustafa and the wedding, the endless number of vendors and tea shop proprieors, smiling kids, passerby who would wave us over for tea, rest and a kind word...hundreds upon hundreds of kind souls who I will never forget....I was sad to leave and surprised to realize how attached I had become to Turkey....I was also both scared and excited about entering Georgia, an ancient country and culture which would be a whole new world to me....Tim and I hugged and smile at each other, the border was in front of us and a large Turkish flag flew above our heads. I took a deep breath and passed the gate taking my final steps in Turkey....I look back teary eyed, ''Tesekkur ederim Turkei {thank you Turkey}'' on my lips...
"It always rains in Rize,'' ''Only 69 days of sun in Rize.'' We had been warned many times but we hoped that our good luck with the weather would hold up. It really would have been a miracle though if it had not rained in Rize, a city famous for percipitation and tea production. We were soaked to the bone when we finally made it and were in no hurry to continue until we dried out after a few days. We had grown tired and were slow, the three months of walking had taken their toll and I felt a chronic tiredness which even a 15 hour sleep could not shake off. We had to be smart and make it to Batumi, Georgia soon and rest for at least a week. We crossed more towns along the Black Sea and our steps were slow and silent. The sea was calming and we were both preparing ourselves to leave Turkey - the great country which had shown us so much hospitality...a place I will always cherish and miss...a nation of 'brothers' and a culture which now flowed in my blood...
"This is a brothel too nigger.'' It was no surprise, Ardesen, Arhavi and Hopa, the last cities in Turkey towards the Georgian border were infested with prostitution, crappy bars and liquor stores. We were in Hopa, only a mere 30 km from Georgia and it felt like I was in a Turkish version of Las Vegas, or a Laz version to be precise, since the inhabitants of this area were not Turks at all but belonged to an ancient people - the Laz, who spoke their own language and did not share any physical features with their Turkish countrymen. They were very European in appearance but dressed in pointy shoes and fake Armani jeans like Turks do. The women were more open here as well and I was surprised to see them look me in the eyes. We were entering a new culture and I was excited.
"Nyet" I replied in Russian to the three Georgian prostitutes at the door. I was tired and in no mood to entertain money-hungry hookers. "I just want to sleep, nye zena {no women].'' I was starting to use the Russian I had begun to learn the week before. Unfortunately I would use it mainly for warting off dirty old Georgian prostitutes. It was late and I noticed Tim tossing and turning in bed. He was also having a hard time falling asleep. We would cross into Georgia tomorrow and we were excited. We had no idea what would await us and a million thoughts were racing through my head. I also anticipated some problems with my visa which had probably expired and had no idea what would happen at the border. "Lets get a beer man.'' And so we dressed, got some Efes Pilsen and sat down on a Turkish beach for the last time.
We crossed the second tunnel towards the border. My heart was pounding hard as I walked and thought about all the great people I had met on my trip - Onur in Gebze, Omer the baker in Duzce, Baris in Istanbul, Franz, Halil bey, the muhtars, Mustafa and the wedding, the endless number of vendors and tea shop proprieors, smiling kids, passerby who would wave us over for tea, rest and a kind word...hundreds upon hundreds of kind souls who I will never forget....I was sad to leave and surprised to realize how attached I had become to Turkey....I was also both scared and excited about entering Georgia, an ancient country and culture which would be a whole new world to me....Tim and I hugged and smile at each other, the border was in front of us and a large Turkish flag flew above our heads. I took a deep breath and passed the gate taking my final steps in Turkey....I look back teary eyed, ''Tesekkur ederim Turkei {thank you Turkey}'' on my lips...
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