With Tim's words still fresh in my mind, we approach a small restaurant along the road right before Rikhoti pass. A man outside asks me something in Georgian and instead of continuing with my head lowered as I had done the past few days I struggle to smile and greet him. He waves me over and I enter the restaurant with Tim following shortly behind.
"Sit my friends, sit! Where are you from?" After the same old routine of explaining where we were from and what we were doing, the young owner of the restaurant brings us a plate of fried eggplant with walnut sauce, some homemade cheese, bread and shredded cabbage. Soon a small group of young men are around us and are asking us the questions we have been answering for the last five months. I try to find delight in our replies and I smile, at first out of politeness but the men are all cheerful and keep patting me on the back saying "Molodec (Young man!)" which sort of means, "way to go young man" and soon I find myself actually enjoying myself and their company. They bring over a bottle of chacha, the potent grape brandy and Tim fills our cups quickly. First, as always, we toast to God and gulp down our entire glasses. The owner, proud of his strong cuncoction, throws a glass into a small fire we are all huddled over and the chacha bursts into a colorful flame. We all laugh - it's a tough drink, and we are all tough men, or at least crazy men. I drink another shot, and then another and I feel my cheeks getting warmer. "To your hospitality, may God give you health!" I toast, already knowing the right words for the right moment. The men are touched by my toast, as are most of the Georgians who discovered that I had learned their tamada tradition, and they stand on their feet out of respect towards me. Tim fills my glass as soon as I set it down to the ground. "Keep drinking, nigger, you need it." The smoke from the fire was burning my eyes but I didn't mind anymore. I didn't mind the cold, grey weather, I didn't mind how tired I was, how I longed to be elsewhere. The chacha was doing its trick and the men were exactly the company I needed at the time - happy, tipsy Georgians. After a few more shots I tell Tim its now or never if we want to make it through Rikhoti pass. We kiss the men on one cheek and leave...
Rikhoti pass turned out to be a 2 km tunnel through a mountain, and I detested tunnels as much as anything during the trip - they were cold, dark, drafty and often dangerous. This tunnel was no exception - with barely enough space to walk on the side, Tim and I often had to cross into the road and feared getting hit by a car. It was very cold and dirty water dripped on us from above the entire time. Somehow though, I didn't mind. Maybe it was because I was drunk, maybe it was because of Tim's words, but I was in relatively good spirits. We exit the tunnel and to our surprise the grey sky which had hovered above us for almost the entire time we were in Georgia started to be speckled with bright blue spots....and we could almost see the sun through the clouds...we had entered a new region of Georgia, a new climate, a new world....and I couldn't have been happier for it...
I smile at an old man selling honey from a tiny wooden shack and he too waves me over...
Omar ("war" in Turkish, since he was born at the beginning of WWII), was what I would describe as the perfect host. Much like Halil-bey, the kind old man who saved us in the mountains of Tamdere before we reached the Black Sea, was so peaceful, so gentle and thoughtful, that I would not be surprised to discover he was an angel and not of flesh and blood. He took us into his little shack and offered us a humble meal of everything he had in a small refridgerator above the two small chairs in the wooden box he used to sell his homemade products from. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and his hands were large and worn with work on the land. His manner was too gentle for his appearance, so much in fact, that I had to mention it to him. "I might be big, and my name does mean "war" but I prefer peace. I like friends. I like to meet new people and you know that in Georgia guests are gifts from God." Omar smiled, and each time he did Tim and I followed. His kindness was contagious and his smile intoxicating. He poured us some chacha and Tim asked for some wine. "Drink as much as you want, my guests. Don't feel that you have to drink out of politeness. I don't drink much, since I have a bad heart, but I will drink some with you." We drank and Omar was the tamada. His toasts, probably the wisest I have ever heard, filled our hearts with passion and even brought tears to my eyes on a few occasions. He knew - how I do not know - what it meant to do what we were doing and he knew the right words to say. "For your patience...to your parents who are worrying for you at home, and for you who worry about them and wish them peace of mind...to your hopes and dreams, for you are both dreamers...may you not give up, no matter how tired you are, no matter how difficult it is, stay together and make it to your goal...for the lessons you have learned, may you always respect them and never forget them, may you never forget me and this day we met in Rikhoti..." How could I forget this man? To me he is not a simple honey vendor, or a former economist who travelled throughout the former USSR (as I he later explained), but he was a mentor, a spiritual guide....a great man I will cherish....
Our time with Omar was short, perhaps only a few hours, but the experience moved me. "You gave me the strength to go on, Mr. Omar, bless you..." "You always had the strength. You and your friend are strong men, don't think otherwise. What you are doing is beautiful and only strong, good men can do what you are doing...don't worry, you will be fine, you are not alone..." And I believed him...I still believe him...
Tim and I looked at each other as we walked away from Omar. We both knew we had experienced something special, and my brother and I were now so connected that we didn't need to say a word, all was understood...
Surami, was ahead of us, a beautiful landscape of snow-capped mountains with houses and old churches spread out across them. We stop to eat some "piroshke" (fried dough with mash potatoes and cheese) at a stand along the road and we notice some people waving at us - Ben and Caroline! They had found a hotel nearby and were also looking for something to eat. It felt good to know that others, friends, were along the road, and each time we would bump into them "accidentally" along our way (which will happen often), made me feel less lonely. We talk with them shortly and continue towards Hashuri....
The large green pine trees along the road towards Hashuri seemed more beautiful then the ones we past previously, and the sky was now blue with bright, fluffy white clouds...I was happy to be on the road...Tim and I made our way towards Hashuri, joking around the same we always had - quoting "The Big Lebowski" and "The Chappelle Show" and retelling the same old inside jokes we shared, yet that day they seemed funnier than before....as the sun set we stopped to marvel at the sky turning red and I took a deep breath...I looked down at the valley before us, Hashuri, and the purpose of the trip seemed to be coming back to me - I felt like my self again...
Friday, February 5, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Losing Purpose
Ben and Caroline's blonde hair, and Ben's goatie, really stuck out amongst the black-haired and dark-clothed Georgians we encountered. They were a breath of fresh air. Over our bowl of soup at the road-side restaurant I quickly grew to like them. Although they had not gotten to know Georgia as intimately as we, they had arrived slowly enough to know where they were and to get the local mentality. I could not communicate easily with Caroline because she didn't speak much English and I spoke no French but Ben's sense of humor was great. They had experienced Georgian hospitality too and had drunk many tamadas on their way. With a lot of laughter we all recalled being forced to get drunk with the locals and how we had found ourselves toasting and being toasted. They had discovered the same Georgian hospitality as well as irrationalities as we. After our lengthy meal, we headed towards Khetvi, the last village before the dangerous Rikhoti pass.
"This must be a record, nigger!" I had found us a place to sleep in less than five minutes. All it took was one short conversation with a man in front of a grocery store in Khetvi. He showed us to an old woman's house where we could sleep. A skinny eldery, yet wirey woman, named Nuna popped up behind a wooden gate wearing a marihuana bandana over her head and wielding a pair of clippers. She was toothless but smiled from ear to ear, happy to have us as guests. She barely spoke any Russian but the man explained what we were up to and she soon showed us through her garden to her humble home. I told the man we could pay 20 lari in total which is the equivalent of around 12 dollars! She agreed and we put our bags and equipment in our spacious rooms.
Nunu was a comical character and constantly kept joking with us in Georgian, which Ben tried to understand with the help of his guide book. Her daughter on the other hand was not as cheerful. Leyla, a 35 year old, fair-skinned yet hardened woman, barely smiled at all. Her eyebrows were constantly in a V shape and I could tell right away she was not happy to share her home with four foreigners. She was happy to receive 20 lari though, which is a pretty penny in these parts...
"Gas is expensive!" Leyla yelled as Tim tried to boil some water for coffee on a gas heater. "No problem," I replied, "we'll wait for it to heat up on the wooden stove in the living room." Perhaps Ben and Caroline, nor Tim for that matter, were aware of the poisonous manner of our young host but it was bothering me. Nunu drank coffee with us and even ate some cookies we had bought at the local store (our only source of food for two days) but Leyla didn't want anything to do with us. Tim, Caroline and Ben spent the day joking around in French and were cheerful for the most part. Each time they would laugh outloud I noticed Leyla giving them a dirty look. I felt she resented their happiness. They (and I for all she knew) were from the West, and life was perfect for us. We were privileged and I knew she resented us. I spent my day writing away quietly and helping Tim cook our humble dinner of pasta and cheese. I was ready to leave the next day but again fate had different plans.
"We can't go in this rain, it's not smart man." "Damn it Tim! I told you not to get rid of your rubber shoes, I'm fine with walking in the rain." "Really?! You'd walk in this weather? What's the big deal with spending one day here? We have a cheap, warm place to be, we should take advantage of it." Tim didn't know what I was going through. Spending another day under the dirty stares of Leyla - being in a place where I didn't feel wanted seemed like torture. I would have left, I would have walked in the rain, I would have run as far as I could have from that place...
"She wants more money," a neighbor of Leyla's tells me in Russian. Leyla was not happy with us staying another day and she didn't even try to hide it. "She'll get her money," I reply, yet I don't manage to keep myself from swearing outloud in Croatian. I understood why Leyla resented us, I understood why she disliked us, but I knew it was wrong. If she despised us so, she should not have taken us in...money was more important to her than her pride...but in a way I felt guilty too...
"What's the matter," Tim asks, after I spend a silent morning writing. Ben and Caroline were busy making lunch and we had some time to talk. "It's getting to me, Tim. I can't stand wasting another day like this. I don't want to be here...she doesn't want us here..." "Don't worry about it, nigger, we'll be out of here before you know it."
Getting to know Ben and Caroline better helped shake away my blues somewhat but I was still in a miserable state. Tim noticed something was wrong and he was worried as we said our cordial yet cold good-byes to Nunu and Leyla. New Year's Eve was tomorrow (now you know how late the blog is, SORRY!!!) and we wouldn't be celebrating with Ben and Caroline. They would be in a hotel in the small town of Surami while we would head further for the larger town of Hashuri and try to find another homestay. As we walked away from the small wooden house in Khevi I turn around to look at Leyla one more time and her look gives me goosebumps...so much hate...
"Tell me what's wrong, what's the matter with you? I saw the way you passed those people without even looking at them. You don't even smile at the people anymore." We had crossed 7-8 km and were about to enter Rikhoti when Tim approached me. "I don't know Tim. I just don't see the point in this anymore. We just take from these people. I felt like I was exploiting Leyla and Nunu. They didn't want us there but needed the money, it just feels wrong. I don't want to take anymore." "You're wrong! Nunu wanted us there, she was happy we were there. We did nothing wrong. We gave as much as we could, we always do, you know that. It was Leyla's fault. She's the one who should feel sorry. She could have been open towards us, towards our good intentions, our love. You know that's all we felt towards them." My brother was right as he had been so many times along our way. We had in a way given back to the people who hosted us, who showed kindness towards us. We tried to love them as much as we could and to share with them, if nothing our experiences, our thoughts, our good intentions. I was confused though, everything was foggy like the weather that day. Walking without a clear purpose is impossible...walking such distances without a firm mindset was also impossible...I knew if something didn't change soon, I wouldn't make it to Tbilisi...
"This must be a record, nigger!" I had found us a place to sleep in less than five minutes. All it took was one short conversation with a man in front of a grocery store in Khetvi. He showed us to an old woman's house where we could sleep. A skinny eldery, yet wirey woman, named Nuna popped up behind a wooden gate wearing a marihuana bandana over her head and wielding a pair of clippers. She was toothless but smiled from ear to ear, happy to have us as guests. She barely spoke any Russian but the man explained what we were up to and she soon showed us through her garden to her humble home. I told the man we could pay 20 lari in total which is the equivalent of around 12 dollars! She agreed and we put our bags and equipment in our spacious rooms.
Nunu was a comical character and constantly kept joking with us in Georgian, which Ben tried to understand with the help of his guide book. Her daughter on the other hand was not as cheerful. Leyla, a 35 year old, fair-skinned yet hardened woman, barely smiled at all. Her eyebrows were constantly in a V shape and I could tell right away she was not happy to share her home with four foreigners. She was happy to receive 20 lari though, which is a pretty penny in these parts...
"Gas is expensive!" Leyla yelled as Tim tried to boil some water for coffee on a gas heater. "No problem," I replied, "we'll wait for it to heat up on the wooden stove in the living room." Perhaps Ben and Caroline, nor Tim for that matter, were aware of the poisonous manner of our young host but it was bothering me. Nunu drank coffee with us and even ate some cookies we had bought at the local store (our only source of food for two days) but Leyla didn't want anything to do with us. Tim, Caroline and Ben spent the day joking around in French and were cheerful for the most part. Each time they would laugh outloud I noticed Leyla giving them a dirty look. I felt she resented their happiness. They (and I for all she knew) were from the West, and life was perfect for us. We were privileged and I knew she resented us. I spent my day writing away quietly and helping Tim cook our humble dinner of pasta and cheese. I was ready to leave the next day but again fate had different plans.
"We can't go in this rain, it's not smart man." "Damn it Tim! I told you not to get rid of your rubber shoes, I'm fine with walking in the rain." "Really?! You'd walk in this weather? What's the big deal with spending one day here? We have a cheap, warm place to be, we should take advantage of it." Tim didn't know what I was going through. Spending another day under the dirty stares of Leyla - being in a place where I didn't feel wanted seemed like torture. I would have left, I would have walked in the rain, I would have run as far as I could have from that place...
"She wants more money," a neighbor of Leyla's tells me in Russian. Leyla was not happy with us staying another day and she didn't even try to hide it. "She'll get her money," I reply, yet I don't manage to keep myself from swearing outloud in Croatian. I understood why Leyla resented us, I understood why she disliked us, but I knew it was wrong. If she despised us so, she should not have taken us in...money was more important to her than her pride...but in a way I felt guilty too...
"What's the matter," Tim asks, after I spend a silent morning writing. Ben and Caroline were busy making lunch and we had some time to talk. "It's getting to me, Tim. I can't stand wasting another day like this. I don't want to be here...she doesn't want us here..." "Don't worry about it, nigger, we'll be out of here before you know it."
Getting to know Ben and Caroline better helped shake away my blues somewhat but I was still in a miserable state. Tim noticed something was wrong and he was worried as we said our cordial yet cold good-byes to Nunu and Leyla. New Year's Eve was tomorrow (now you know how late the blog is, SORRY!!!) and we wouldn't be celebrating with Ben and Caroline. They would be in a hotel in the small town of Surami while we would head further for the larger town of Hashuri and try to find another homestay. As we walked away from the small wooden house in Khevi I turn around to look at Leyla one more time and her look gives me goosebumps...so much hate...
"Tell me what's wrong, what's the matter with you? I saw the way you passed those people without even looking at them. You don't even smile at the people anymore." We had crossed 7-8 km and were about to enter Rikhoti when Tim approached me. "I don't know Tim. I just don't see the point in this anymore. We just take from these people. I felt like I was exploiting Leyla and Nunu. They didn't want us there but needed the money, it just feels wrong. I don't want to take anymore." "You're wrong! Nunu wanted us there, she was happy we were there. We did nothing wrong. We gave as much as we could, we always do, you know that. It was Leyla's fault. She's the one who should feel sorry. She could have been open towards us, towards our good intentions, our love. You know that's all we felt towards them." My brother was right as he had been so many times along our way. We had in a way given back to the people who hosted us, who showed kindness towards us. We tried to love them as much as we could and to share with them, if nothing our experiences, our thoughts, our good intentions. I was confused though, everything was foggy like the weather that day. Walking without a clear purpose is impossible...walking such distances without a firm mindset was also impossible...I knew if something didn't change soon, I wouldn't make it to Tbilisi...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Most Random Encounter
"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...
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...
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!"
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