Armenian Tbilisi

The Holy Mother of God Church of Bethlehem

            Tbilisi is often referred to as the “jewel of the Caucasus” and it is not terribly difficult to see as to why the city has been bestowed with such a title.  It hosts numerous ethnicities, languages and religions with few, if any problems.  It has numerous sections much like any city does, each with its own identity.  In the Old City/Old Tbilisi there is a mosque and next to this lays an Armenian Orthodox Church followed by a Georgian Orthodox Church, a synagogue and finally a Catholic Church all within the vicinity of a few hundred meters.  Ernest Hemingway once wrote in perhaps his worst novel (by his own admittance), To Have and Have Not, that there is an Estonian in every port city.  Well you could easily subtract the noun ‘port’ and replace ‘Estonian’ with ‘Armenian’ and you would be dead on.  Armenians made up much of the Caucasus historically and appear in historical records practically everywhere.

            On Friday, 23.09.11, Tigran (Tyko) and his friend Davit came to visit from Armenia.  Immediately the depths of Tbilisi became apparent.  We had agreed to meet up at what we thought would be the easiest of landmarks and perhaps America’s most notorious gift to the world: McDonalds.  Unfortunately there is more than one McDonalds and we stood waiting, somewhat impatiently at different ones.  My phone sang 30 minutes past our meeting time: 

            “Mike jan, where are you?”

           

“McDonalds, Tyko jan.”

            “Yes, Mike jan, but which?”

“The one on Rustaveli,” I replied.

            “Yes Mike jan, but which?”

            “Uhm…which one are you at?”  While I knew that there was more than one McDonalds in Tbilisi I couldn’t fathom that they’d all be located on the same street.

            “Mike jan, there are three McDonalds,” Tyko continued.

            “Yes, so which one are you at?”  This continued.  Finally, we started to text each other.  Cities bring about great wonders in terms of opportunity, selection, history, views etc, but Tbilisi also carries the gift of terrifying traffic that seems to respect no authority and with such rebellious commotion comes the succession of car horns being blared as they pass by.  It’s as if everyone is discovering this device for the first time and are amused by its powers.  After all, you just press down in the center of the steering wheel and you basically have your own marching band announcing your arrival, which only hinders a phone conversation.

            Finally we met up, but not at McDonalds but in front of the most recognizable building of any country’s capitol:  Parliament.  Once they arrived we caught up, it had been a little more than a year since we last saw each other with the exception of our less than frequent meetings via Skype.  We proceeded on with a list of goals in no particular order: find our hotel, exchange money, send a wire transfer to Estonia, eat, get sim cards, etc.  After we secured a map, with the general location of our hotel circled we headed to Beeline so they could get sim cards for their phones and avoid exorbitant roaming fees. However youth brings about the passion of being at the front of the technological wave and Davit’s Iphone 4 surpassed the technology of Beeline.  To be precise his sim card was too large for the phone and we needed scissors. 

We marched into a bank and after some debate over exchange rates stood in different lines.  They had American dollars that needed to be exchanged (it’s surprisingly difficult to exchange Drams for Lari) and I stood in my queue to begin my wire transfer.  This would prove to take an extreme amount of patience. 

My teller spoke excellent English and told me that I needed to open an account.  So we filled out the forms to complete this and settled on what currencies the account would hold.  Then came the tasks of copying the information from my passport, photocopying the passport and finally a bunch of signatures.  Once that was completed she asked me for the information as to where the money was going.  I produced my notepad with all the information on it which bewildered her and rightly so.  It is terribly hard to find a printer in Urbnisi, or anywhere for that matter and so I had to copy by hand what I thought to be relevant information from the invoice.  As we progressed with the transaction Tyko and Davit came to my side.

Davit asked her for scissors.  In Russian.  As a rule here, if you speak English and the person in question speaks it like a native (and knows that you do), unless you both speak Georgian then you speak English.  It’s not terribly hard to understand.  She looked at him and he repeated the request in English.  Perhaps more bewildering to her than being spoken to in Russian by someone who was speaking to me perfectly fine in English was that he was indeed asking for scissors (far from a common request) for his sim card at a bank, I needed a wire transfer to someplace in Estonia (an even less common request that borderlines suspicion) and that an American was hanging out with Armenians in Georgia.  She looked at him, quickly took out scissors and said “I don’t understand or care what you are doing.” 

“I only need scissor to fix my sim card,” Davit tried to explain in vain.  She shot him a glance and he backed away, slightly out of fear and a fair amount of general awkwardness.       

As the day continued it quickly became apparent that there was an agenda to fulfill:  to visit everything Armenian in Tbilisi.  So we ventured forth to Old Tbilisi in search of the Armenian Orthodox Church.  On the way we stopped at a café for some tea and coffee.  There we asked our waiter for directions.  He said it was to the left.  Not entirely convinced we asked another passing waiter who claimed that the church lay to the right.  We picked the latter. 

An Azeri Wedding in the Distance
and the Wrong Direction

As we approached Heydar Aliyev Park I noticed an Orthodox priest strolling by and prodded Tyko to ask him for directions.  I figured if anyone would know where an orthodox church was it surely would be an orthodox priest.  The translation came to be ‘to go up the hill’ and we slowly climbed up the steep, partially paved road diagnosed with age and being remedied with construction.  As we climbed higher I noticed Tyko and Davit being exceptionally quiet and I was soon to discover why.  We were approaching the mosque frequented most by Azeri’s and if you are unaware of the history of the Caucasus just know that Armenia and Azerbaijan are far from being friends.  A wedding was occurring at the mosque and cars lined the one lane (literally just one lane) road hoisting flags of Georgia and Azerbaijan.  We passed the mosque and stopped, our path was blocked by a park secured with a gate and guarded by a fierce elderly lady who wanted tickets.  Obviously our church didn’t rest beyond those thin steel bars and so we headed back down. 

The Holy Trinity Cathedral of Tbilisi

Ejmiatsin Church

            And down we went, past the wedding and past the construction.  Someone else passed by, wearing a cross and so Davit asked him and he gave his version of directions and those turned out to be correct.  We entered the church, the Holy Mother of God Church of Bethlehem, whose interior was stunning, during mass and stayed for its duration. 

            We headed across the bridge that looms over the Mtkvari/Kura River and continued onwards to the opposite reaches of the city.  There we stood perplexed.  While Davit knew the general direction of the second Armenian Church, Ejmiatsin Church, he didn’t really know where it was.  So we again randomly asked people as they passed.  Finally one man, dressed in a blue track suit walked by and Tyko and Davit immediately recognized him from the previous church.  He introduced himself and we shook hands; which is when I noticed, rather uncomfortably that part of his small finger was missing.  The conversation quickly switched tongues and I was left in the dark.  He led us literally across the street.  We were maybe 30 meters from the Ejmiatsin Church.  But instead of entering we headed towards the Holy Trinity Cathedral of Tbilisi.

The Armenian Cemetery Behind the Holy Trinity Cathedral

            We walked behind it and followed a path that led us to an Armenian cemetery.  The cemetery obviously had some work done to it and rightfully so, in the 1930’s when Lavrenti Beria was exploiting the patronage network of the former USSR he started to destroy the cemetery but never finished in doing so.  After a few moments we headed back and went into the breathtaking Holy Trinity Cathedral of Tbilisi.  Then continued back to Ejmiatsin Church and went inside and roamed about.

            As we left our Armenian guide departed us and Davit started walking while we followed him.  It took us 30 minutes to realize Davit had no idea as to where he was going.  We turned around and heading back to the heart of Tbilisi on the way to the metro I spotted a small store that proudly displayed a sign that read ‘Armenia’.  We rushed inside and there before us lay numerous cured meats, hundreds of pieces of candy that glittered under the fluorescent lights like stars in the night, juices and compote, cognac and Jermuk sparkling water lined the shelves.  We couldn’t resist and left with our arms full of things which didn’t make it to the metro station before being hastily devoured.

            The night ended at the local expat bar, the Hangar, and it was there that it became quite apparent to not just myself but everyone in the bar that my companions were not skilled in the fine art of drinking.  Potvaliance tugged away at their reason and to make matters worse they still hadn’t quite grasped the concept of using English.  After much debate over how one actually consumes beer we left for a bar whose name is not displayed anywhere but is simply known for having Jimmy Hendrix posters and an old working Nintendo with Super Mario that is free to play. 

Tyko and Davit over the Mtkvari

            The next day we had a mission: Tyko’s grandfather 30 years ago lived and owned a house in Tbilisi and had requested that Tyko find the house and to capture its image with his camera.  He drew out a map, complete with the address and street names.  He warned Tyko however that this task would prove challenging for the street names have since been changed and many of the landmarks may no longer be there.  Losing our map the day before and we went into another hotel in hopes of replacing it.  There we explained our mission and they helped us with the dilemma by providing the street names and their interpretations of directions.  To be honest my attitude was riddled with skepticism, after yesterday’s experiences, directions here appeared to be more like opinions of where places should be instead of where they are. 

When we left we walked up to a taxi and began talking to the driver.  Tyko displayed the maps, asked for directions and was trying to extract a price.  The taxi driver named a price and when we bargained and agreed on the price he left and sent someone our way.  Maybe he was just practicing because he wasn’t a taxi driver and so we did the routine all over again.  The driver took us straight to the place, getting lost only twice. 

Tyko's Grandfather's House

The Doors With The Armenian Design

It was the doors to the place that immediately captured Tyko’s attention.  The wood of each door while bearing the stains of time hosted an ornate design from thick, twisted metal wires.  They were shaped in letters of the Armenian alphabet.  The doors were already at least two hundred years old when his grandfather was born and had run in the family.  Above us, on the third floor there was a balcony that stretched out from the room that his grandfather lived in.  A resident walked by and started asking questions and Davit informed her of our reasons for being here as Tyko stood and looked in awe at his family’s history.  She then started to talk to Tyko and he pointed out the designs on the door, now convinced she started to gather some neighbors and wanted to take us to the room where his grandfather lived but unfortunately the owner of the apartment wasn’t there.  The neighbors amassed and we all chatted, the Armenian and Russian languages becoming blurred.  They remembered his grandfather and told him a story or two much of which I’m sure has been repeated to his grandfather already by Tyko since he’s back in Yerevan. 

Tyko and some stranger on the Mtkvari River. 

The day came to close.  Davit’s extended family had planned a gathering at some village about 80 km south of Tbilisi and I had to be back in Urbnisi.  We shared a taxi as they went to meet with Davit’s family and I headed to the Didube Station.  We parted with promises to meet up again, this time in Yerevan, photos, an adventure and a satisfied grandfather.

           

Timber....

Wood, Axes and Booze

            I awoke early Friday morning.  Normally the pleasures of sleep slowly fade at some point between 6 and 7 however on this day a loud repetitive banging noise rustled me from a deep loll around 5 or 5.30.  My first day of school was the day ere and I had Friday off.  Had I known this before I probably would have reinvigorated my attempts at making it to Akhalaksikhe (I really want to go there).  Instead, I figured that Friday would be a day to catch up on some reading, perfecting my learning of various tongues and so forth.

            The noise was persistent.  It sounded like two garbage trucks repeatedly slamming into one another.  Naturally I was quite irritated at such a disturbance but what can one do?  The previous night the whole family was constantly up and moving about, around 3.00 in the morning and then again at four and then at six.  I figured that this must be normal.  The coming weekend often inspires restlessness.  I stumbled outside, the hazy fog of my subconscious still grasping at my eyesight while euphoria haunted my every step and my thoughts were still in a dream like state.  I looked about and noticed that there was a massive amount of logs, piled so high that it bordered the essence of absurdity. 

            I approached my host father, Shamil and utilizing charades asked if we were going to spend the day chopping wood.  In retrospect this was a ridiculous question.  Of course we were going to chop wood, winter was approaching and we had more logs than the number of days in a year.  I went inside and brushed my teeth and got dressed appropriately, it is quite cold in the mornings.  The hair on your next will briefly stand in firm attendance as the early morning wind makes it rounds.  Then Shamil, a neighbor and I huddled outside of the villa.  Others joined us and around 8,30 his neighbor beckoned me to his back yard.  There he gave me a tour of the various kinds of grapes and other fruits that his yard furnished in abundance and insisted that I take handfuls of grapes and figs.  This, I’ve noticed is the way that all tours begin in Georgia, the person in question will show off what nature provides them with and insist that you sample what you simply don’t have.  I accepted his offer and ate them with little hesitation.  They were simply fantastic.

            Still eating we huddled in front of Shamil’s house once more, waiting for the others.  School would be starting soon and the neighbor gave Lekso, one of the kids that terrorizes the village a few Lari.  Lekso took off running and returned with 2.5 liters of beer…at 12.5% ABV.  Thus the four of us (Giorgi had just appeared) began our morning session of debauchery.  More people showed up with axes.  By 9.00 we were chopping the wood.  Well, I was chopping wood, the others were attacking it.  The Georgians employed a method that I was certainly not used to.  Rather than aiming and hitting the center of the log and then using a wedge, they aimed at the corners, thereby reducing the amount of surface area of the log.  Then with one, at most two clean swipes the log would split and they would split it again.  If the log was still too big after its size had been reduced then they resorted to slamming the axe in the center only to lift the entire piece in the air and then slam it on the ground upside down generating their desired effect.

            At 10.00 we amassed in the kitchen.  Tomatoes, tkemali, beans, bread, cheeses, chicken and more beer were all collected onto the table.  Thus the first session of lunch was served.  Each person had a small glass in front of them for Chacha.  Chacha is the notorious Georgian take on vodka distilled from grape leaves and can range anywhere from 50-90% ABV.  Thankfully, this was the former.  There were about 6 or 8 of us and a decanter filled with the Chacha appeared and its contents disappeared amongst the workers.  Then the beer washed it away only to be followed by the wine held in Fanta, Coca-Cola and Borjomi plastic bottles.  I looked at the clock, then at my half empty shot glass filled with the potent Chacha that reeked of some sort of automotive solution, then at the glass of wine that I was forced to drink.  It wasn’t even past 11.  Occasionally my host mother, or her sister would stop by to check on me, however I drank slow and ate much, thereby buffering the effect of the libations.  Then we went back out and chopped some more.

            They set to work dutifully, barely resting and vowing to stop only when the work was completed.  Jokes and laughter were tossed about in numbers that only equaled the number of pieces of wood that faced division from the oncoming blade.  The sun was beginning to reach its zenith and the work was almost completed.  At 14.00 it was finished and another meal was laid out, this time outside.  I was a fool to think that the climax of drinking may have already been reached for what was about to occur was something that few have the opportunity to witness and quite possibly be legendary in other parts of the world. 

            We began to gorge the food laid out amongst our ranks.  A Fanta bottle was produced and offered.  I accepted under the naïve concept that it may have actually been Fanta.  In fact it was wine.  Slowly, I began to realize why Shamil and I had siphoned all of that wine the day before into plastic bottles.  It was in preparation for the many supra’s of the next day.  Altogether I believe that we bottled at least two five gallon carboys of Shamil’s homemade wine.  After all, this time of year in Georgia is the notorious and well publicized wine making season.  I have no idea as to how on earth I did not see this approaching.

            The wine was poured and the toasts began.  One of the neighbors assumed the role of the tamada or toast master.  He made dozens of toasts:  to Georgian, to all things Georgian, to America, my family, my city, Urbnisi, to the women in our lives, to our mothers, our brothers, those who had died and this list continues.  I would only drink maybe a 1/5 to 1/3 of my glass each time, although they were begging me to drink more.  No matter how little I drank by the time of the next toast my glass was refilled prohibiting me from being able to accurately keep track of how much I consumed.  All in all I do believe that at least 20 liters that were consumed that afternoon.  Amazingly, each person at the table, for every toast, drank the entirety of the contents in their glass and appeared sober.  Gradually they began, one by one, to disappear.  The work was done and only the those of us who lived there and those who were professionals remained behind.

            Batcho and Lato were two of the most seasoned drinkers out of the group and the last to leave.  However they didn’t leave by themselves, but rather dragging me to Batcho’s house for the grand tour and….more drinking.  Naturally I was nervous because the last words that I heard them say before we left my host family’s dwelling was Tshkinvali, the capitol of South Ossetia, which you have a better chance of entering dead than you do alive, especially if you are a Georgian.  This fear however was unfounded and we just went over to Batcho’s.  He kept insisting that the house was new and if you remember my posting on the incident concerning the bats new simply means unfinished.  First he showed me all of the grapes and squash and unidentifiable produce he was growing in his backyard.  Actually, to be more accurate, I highly doubt that he was involved with the process of gardening at all, but rather that the backyard simply started sprouting various foods in various places. 

  

Then we entered the house going straight to the back room.  The back room is gigantic and if the house was finished its ceiling would be lowered by half.  The floor is literally the ground, that same soft and dusty like dirt that is the basis for all of our roads/paths.  Scattered across it are hundreds of cobs of rotting corn that will be sold as fodder and horse feed.  Batcho goes over to a makeshift shelf, moves aside a bottle and sticks his hand into the depths of a hole.  His hand reemerges with a mouse trap, complete with a dead mouse.  We go outside and there the carcass is tossed into the yard, we grab some grapes and come back inside.  We enter his room where there the table for dinner.  Meanwhile his wife is in that gigantic back room, making us dinner on the charred black surface of the wood stove.  Dinner that night was nothing more than beans, bread, grapes and beer.  5 liters of beer, once again at 12.5% ABV. 

            Batcho has been rambling the entire time and as every minute passes it is becoming more apparent that he is caving into the effects of the previous binge that we had ridden.  I hear his life story, many times.  He has a black belt in some form of martial arts, served in the former Soviet Army during its last two years of existence then in the Georgian Army during its first five years of existence, which was a time when they were more of a private army than that of a national one.  While in the Soviet Army he was stationed in Khandahar, Afghanistan and is thus suffering from the effects of PTSD.  I didn’t ask but it seems safe to assume to that he participated in the civil wars that occurred in Georgia at its infancy and I highly doubt that has helped his mentality much.    Finally, he hates the Russians.  The word ‘hate’ barely portrays his feelings.

He leads me into the main hall to show me his shrine to that of Christianity.  Photos and lithographs of St. Nino, Jesus, St. George and various other icons are there, plastered against the ailing wall paper that is slowly separating itself from the wall.  We go back to the table and continue to polish off the remainder of the beer.  I managed to escape around 20.00 and only then with Batcho in tow was I able to return home where we had more guests.  After drinking for about 12 hours it is a challenge to confront a small group of sober people in a somewhat formal setting.  For Batcho this appeared impossible which he demonstrated by trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to have me court one of the local girls.  Here it is important to note that there is no casual dating in Georgia.  Dating is coupled with the expectation of the delivery of marriage within one to twelve months.  Fair warning.

            After some time passed of conversing with the guests we settled down and had espresso around 21.30.  Everything here that day seemed to operate in reverse: beer, wine and vodka were indulged as the sun rose and caffeine was consumed as the night was beginning to cover the landscape.  The night would bring about a deep sleep, followed by an early morning where my host family would continually ask me if I was hungover.  I wasn’t and am beginning to suspect that this fact disappointed them.          

           

Borjomi

Borjomi

Borjomi

            On Monday, 12.09.2011, I realized that my school position started that Thursday.  So I looked at a map and the destinations that I wanted to visit.  There wasn’t enough time to notify my friends in Armenia about a potential visit, so that was out of the question.  I still haven’t begun the process for my Azeri Visa so naturally my Ganja-Baku-Oil Rocks trip would have to wait.  Akhalaksike was a place that had always struck my interest.  Akhalaksikhe, at the beginning of the 20^th Century and for much of the end of the 19^th Century was constantly volleyed for by the Ottoman Empire and the soon to be defunct Tsarist Russia.  It was taken by Tsarist Russia around 1828 (think the Turko-Russo War). If memory serves me correct its final boundaries were settled shortly after Georgia was absorbed by the Soviet Union in the early 1920s with the treaty of Kars.  Ere, Georgia had gained its independence around 1917 at a choatic time in history and the Ottomans were quite strong while the newly formed Georgia had practically nothing and the Ottomans constantly apply pressure on Georgia for pieces of its territory. 

            I looked closely at Akhalaksikhe on the map and noticed that it rested maybe 1 hour or 2 hours away from Borjomi, which was someplace that I knew little of other than being a resort and having mineral water.  So the plan was concocted and set:  First I would go to Borjomi and the next day on to Akhalaksikhe.  But there was one major problem, while Borjomi has been routinely explored and documented and thus online I was able to find at least one reputable home stay but Akhalaksikhe has nothing online.  Nothing.  Nichevo.  Vochmiban.  Normally this wouldn’t bother me but I had no idea as to what the city looked like and it wasn’t known to be one that is at all touristy or on the path to any place in particular.  Therefore the odds of finding a hotel, yet alone one that carries a decent price, seemed dubious at best.

            Also, so far, maps of any city, are practically non existent and as I’ve stated many times ere, the internet here is far from the greatest.  Its simply basic and even that is a gross overstatement.  Therefore I really lacked the information to be in Akhalaksikhe.  I’ll get there another day.  But for the moment I had gotten in contact with a few other volunteers of various backgrounds, who were holidaying in Batumi.  I had been to Batumi before and going there again, especially with a bunch of people, didn’t strike my fancy. 

            Regardless Monday morning I got up at six and caught an mshtrutka heading to Tbilisi.  The music that was played was completely cacophonic.  American folk, Georgian rap (which is simply hysterical), Russian pop and Phil Collins was our soundtrack as we dodged and passed a variety of cars, all of them doubtfully road worthy on our way into Tbilisi.  The mshtrutka dropped me off in the middle of a bunch of others mshtrutkas heading in different directions.  Taxi drivers would proudly stand in front of their chariots shouting out the names of places hoping to trigger a reaction in the cold, stone faces of people.  “Vladikavkaz, Batumi, Gori, Kazbeg!” 

            “Vladikavkaz,” I asked myself.  Vladikavkaz is the capital of North Ossetia, one of the many autonomous republics in the North Caucasus which finds itself behind the Russian border.  Its name literally translates into “Conqueror of the Caucasus,” and when the Russians were making their inroads in the region this was their jumping off point.  North Ossetia made headlines a few years ago when a bunch of Chechen insurgents or freedom fighters raided a public school in Beslan.  It ended as the worst hostage situation in history.  Hundreds of school children died and the entire episode was inappropriately handled.  Theories fly constantly and its aftermath leaves more questions unanswered than not.  So it’s filled with history and I thought that since the 2008 conflict was completely inaccessible, but this proved me wrong.

A Hot Dog Stand In Borjomi Park

            Regardless I hailed a cab to take me to Rustaveli.  I desperately wanted to go to Prospero’s Books, the only book store in the Republic of Georgia dedicated to expats and I needed to go to the Geocell office to buy an internet USB.  The driver charged me 7 lari, which was drastically overpriced (my ride from Urbnisi to Tbilisi itself was only 8 lari) but considering I was a foreigner, had no idea as to where in Tbilisi I was and I feel that I know the city fairly well I came to the conclusion that getting ripped off now and again wasn’t that big of a deal.  After all it was only $5.  I went and did what I needed to do and met up with a friend who was going to take my to the Didube Station, the biggest station which from there I could find a way to Borjomi.  We met and took another mshtrutka to Didube, which is exactly where I was before.  I passed the same taxi drivers and the same shouts of popular locations.  She helped me find my mshtrutka and arranged it so that it would drop me off at the info center.

            I got in the mshtrutka and apparently she had also arranged it so that I could sit up front, between the driver and his cohort.  I dozed into a sleep constantly afraid that if I moved wrong my knee would knock the gear shift out of the proper gear.  Along the way we dropped off a few people and picked up a few more.  By far the most interesting instance was when the driver took the keys out of the ignition, left the front cab and went to the back to take out some luggage.  He got back in and the mshtrutka and it wouldn’t start.  Immediately he popped the hood, said something the goon sitting next to me and grabbed a screw driver.  Within moments the mshtrutka started and three hours later, after ascending and descending several passes we entered Borjomi a small city situated in a valley completely surrounded by the mountains.

            The mshtrutka pulled over and the driver motioned for me to get out pointing across the street.  I took the hint and disembarked and went across to what was the information center.  The information center is a small room, in the middle of a small park, encased in logs and glass walls.  I entered and the guy behind the desk motioned for me to sit down.

The Entrance To Borjomi Park

            “I’m Arthur,” he said while pushing away a smoking ciggarette resting in a glass ashtray to his friend.  I introduced myself and we shook hands.  After twenty minutes of listening to Arthur I felt that I could skip the local museum of lore and that I wouldn’t need the hand drawn map that had been photocopied more times than the years that Borjomi has existed.  He instantly knew which homestay I had in mind and practically everything else.  To call him a tour guide would be an injustice.  He talked about Borjomi park where there were two fountains, one with warm water, which was better for you but after a few hours, perhaps one day, was rendered nonpotable.  The other fountain dispersed cold water which lasted longer but didn't carry all of the medical properties that the warm water did.  Then he mentioned a thermal sulfur bath, a cable car, hiking with guides, hiking without guides, the museum of local lore (it has 127 exhibits but only requires an hour).  I felt that if I asked him he could provide with the winning lottery numbers for the next two years.  On the photocopied hand drawn map he scribbled down his phone number, both for a phone with roaming coverage, local coverage and international coverage, in case I needed anything.  I told him others would be coming soon.

The First Cafe

     I left Arthur and went across the main bridge connecting the commerical district of Borjomi to the residential.  There I passed a great deal of hotels, all of which may or may not have been abandoned.  Quite a few had advertisements in Hebrew.  I expected Armenian, Turkish, Russian, certainly Georgian and perhaps English but Hebrew for some reason caught me off guard.  Still walking along according to the map that Arthur may or may not have drawn years ago I passed a tall 2 or 3 story house which caught my attention.  I think it was slightly because it was painted in the brigthest shade of yellow imaginable and more so because its design resembled those of Northern Europe.  I had read somewhere that at some at point a Northern European architect visited Georgia and completed a series of houses, this must have been one of them.
    
     Still following the map I made a slight right and continued along what I thought had to be Shroma Street. After two blocks I stopped.  The road was beyond repair and in the middle of it was a pile of debris at least 1 meter high. Either a stunted barricade or improvised speed bump I stepped around it and approached someone who was just standing around.  He didn't know where the guest house was and took me to his friend who guided me the extra 10 meters there.    Marina, an slightly elderly woman, spoke only English and Russian and using the later she showed me my room, inquired as to how many would be joining me and we settled on the price of 20 GEL/Lari, or roughly 10 USD. 

           

           Thirty minutes later I received a phone call from the other volunteers, they had just arrived.  I told them to visit Arthur.  40 minutes later the phone downstairs rang, and that was Arthur calling to ask Marina if she had room for four more.  She did and they came to visit.  Naturally they got lost on the way and I went and found them.  Our room consisted of five beds, one being a double.  A huge carpet hung against the wall and we had a small balcony.  The bathroom had a western toilet which was more of a problem to use than my Turkish one back in Urbnisi.  The seat wasn’t really attached, sometimes it had water to flush, many times it didn’t. 

The Sulfur Bath

            Once everyone got settled in we went to a café, compared recent adventures, living conditions, etc.  Then we headed towards the Borjomi park.  As we got closer to the park I was reminded of Parnu, Estonia.  With every step a new vendor came to sight offering variations of wine both in the fashion of varietals and sizes.  Some had towels, others different breads, pictures, empty plastic carboys, beer and oddly enough hot dogs.  After passing through the commotion we entered the square that was the entrance to Borjomi Park.  In front were iron gates and to the right swayed back and forth an old cable car. 

     We found the first fountain and the second never materialized.  There I filled up my water bottle from a faucet that emitted the tiniest stream possible of mineral water.  The water, everyone found repulsive and I found to be quite nice.  Naturally you had to get over the smell of rotten eggs and the metallic taste but whatever.  We then walked and walked across a series of bridges looking for the thermal sulfur bath.  We stopped and asked at least two people who confirmed that there was an indeed a thermal bath and that it was just a bit further.  Arthur said it was only a two kilometer walk and we had already surpassed that.  Some members began to doubt its existence and wanted to turn back.  The group became divided and we kept setting bench marks for when we would finally give up.  Finally we reached a bridge that looked as if a two year old's drawing had been mistaken for a blue print and materialized.  In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if it was. After crossing the thermal bath immediately became visilbe and we disrobed and entered the murky warm waters that defied every idea of personal hygiene.

The Bridge To The Sulfur Bath

            After a few hours we left and found some food at what I think is the worst restaurant I’ve been to in Georgia, but oh well, it was cheap.  The next day we left and I went back to Tbilisi, among the restless Didube Station to Gori and on to Urbnisi.  The ride back was interesting.  At one point we were behind an 18 wheeler, which was behind one also.  We both decided to pass at the same time, which involves entering the lane with the traffic coming from the opposing direction.  What we slowly began to realize, was that it was an entire parade of eighteen wheelers that we were passing and our view was blocked by the one that was leading us.  Suddenly it moved back into the proper lane, and we were faced playing a small game of chicken with a white Lada, hysterically flashing its lights.  We edged in slightly between the two 18 wheelers, so close that we really couldn’t see the road inbetween us.  We passed the Lada without incidence, for it had decided that rather than colliding with our mshtrutka that it would navigate the shoulder.  Then we edged out again and passed a few more.

A View Of Borjomi

            Borjomi is indeed worth the harrowing ride.  We had taken a cable car to the top of a mountain and were able to view the entirety of the city, which is utterly fantastic.  The view, even if seen for just 30 minutes more than compensates for the three hour journey from Tbilisi.  The only other attraction at the top of the mountain is a Ferris wheel.  I’m not sure why its there but I suppose that there are more pressing questions in life.  The only other things I wish I could have done would have been to visit one of the few monasteries that reside in the area and taken a mshtrutka to Vranzia, a nearby village(?) city(?) that boasts of having ancient buildings and monasteries and so forth.

  Here are a list of upcoming trips: 

September 23^rd-25^th:    Tbilisi with the Armenians and two Georgians.

October 13^th-17^th:  Tbilisi-Trabzon-Kars-Ani

October:  ? Kazbegi                                            

Urbnisi

            As of now I’m residing in a small village in the Shida Kartli region of Georgia.  To be more specific it is part of the municipality of the city of K’areli and is called Urbnisi.  It is actually closer to Gori, the home of the infamous Ioseb Dzhugashvili, aka Stalin.  Yes, Stalin was a Georgian and while after some debate that he was part Ossetian it has been held pretty firmly that he was indeed Kartveli.  So far I haven’t tried to bring the topic up but somehow it always seems to surface and it is a 50/50 gamble of encountering someone here who likes him.  This is just a matter on how you view history.

The View From My Balcony/Entrance

            Regardless, Urbnisi, after asking around is a village with a population of 500 families.  That’s about as accurate as it gets.  Most websites don’t have the population number so I just have to accept the local’s testimonies.  A typical family here is somewhere between 3 and 8 people.  So let’s just settle for around 2,500 – 3,000.  I guess it is easier to say 500 families. 

            We have the works.  Satellite TV.  Fig trees.  Hundreds of grape vines.  Chickens.  A teasing internet connection.  Electricity.  Mineral water that comes from the well.  Cows.  Sheep.  Several congresses of dogs.  Volley ball, sans net.  Turkish toilets.  Practically every kind of mutated fruit that exists.  We even have a tona/toona, where we make our bread.  Our roads are more like paths and every morning brings new gifts from cows that have escaped.

In The Far Left Corner Is This Stone and Steel Oven Where We
Make Our Bread.  A Fire Is Set In the Center and Rests About A
Meter Below.  The Dough Is Slapped On The Sides and Cooks.

            Urbnisi hosts a church built in 600 A.D.  The village rests along the banks of the river Mtkvari or Kura (the Russian name) which apparently, after some rather recent investigation runs from around Kars, Turkey to Baku on the Caspian Sea, thereby dividing Georgia (Sakartvelo) into two.  The fact that it originates from a lake in Kars does not quite make sense to me, but oh well.  Essentially it would have to flow northeast then just east for the rest of the way until heading slightly south.  In Urbnisi there is a bridge, and while that seems to be a generous word for what it actually is I experienced something far cruder and suicidal in Borjomi (just wait for that post, its coming, I promise), that you can cross to get to the other side.  There after about a kilometer you get to some train tracks and a stop that the train doesn’t stop for but certainly continually toots its horn around 3,00am just to let you know you’ve missed it.  The train itself is the Tbilisi-Gori-Batumi Train and as its name suggests those are its only stops.  Which leads me to wonder why there is a platform complete with office near my village on the train tracks.  I haven’t made it across the tracks but desire to, for across it is the Trialeti Mountain Range.  

            There is no actual postage system here probably because there are no street signs of any kind, nor addresses yet alone any form of a mail box.  Perhaps an even bigger issue is that there are no roads, but once again just our humble, cow explored paths.  This is how the mail system works:  a mshrutka (I may have spelt that wrong) pulls over as someone hails it (which they do by sticking their arm out, pointing towards the ground).  The deathtrap on wheels pulls over quickly, dodging whatever is in its way and the driver, who may be either on the left or right side, sticks his head out the nonfunctioning window and they start talking.  Then the driver turns down the music and they start talking again.  The person hands them a package and some money which can either go to another stop or a postal office.  When the bus of thrills encounters its stop it just pulls over and gives it to someone who is waiting for it.  It works, I’ve personally been witness to it.

            My host father/dad Shamil (Shamyl) works in the fields with the other men all day while his wife takes care of the two boys.  There is an elder woman who lives with us, well actually possibly two but I’m not positive and then there is a girl who comes by and occasionally stays the night but I think she lives a few streets over.  Although I guess she could be living here and just stays there a few nights out of the weeks.  Not quite sure…

            No matter, they buy about two kilos of tomatoes a week, make their own wine in enormous batches and we just have a ton of food.  But no refrigerator.  That too might also be a mistake.  I think there is one (it looks like one of those that 7/11 sells ice cream out of) but I’ve never seen anything in it but the occasional water melon.  Our staples are bread (p’uri), tomatoes (pomidori), and salt.  After that it changes.  For instance two days ago we had something that went along like this:  8 eggs beaten and mixed with flour.  A few zucchini’s that were shaved, mixed together with the batter only to be friend on the stove in sun flower oil and created a pan cake like thing that was awesome.      

            This week my host mother’s sister, Nino, came from Italy.  She speaks Russian, Georgian, Italian, Spanish and French although you wouldn’t know any of this because she only permits herself to speak Italian which really doesn’t help anyone at all.  The two boys, Amirani and Vejikko (whom Shamil calls “terrorist”) can speak some English but they refuse out of fear of making a mistake, a cultural thing.  Finally Irma (whose name I undoubtedly typed wrong) speaks some English, native Georgian and Russian.  Shamil speaks both Russian and Georgian and knows some English.  As you may or may not know after 2008 the Russians are not particularly well liked here so speaking Russian is a no-no.  However after exhausting ourselves with charades and bumping our heads in the language barrier too many times sometimes we revert to language of the great bear up north.

            Naturally since Nino has been here evening and morning tea has turned into multiple rounds of espresso, all sorts of Italian sausage and cured meats, cookies etc. 

            We have a few neighbors but two in particular stand out.  There is Batcho, who gives me grapes and constantly asks me to drink.  Then there is this one guy, who is quite older and only talks to me in Armenian, sometimes a word or two in Russian.  I’ve asked around and apparently he’s not Armenian so I have no idea as to what triggers this.  The only thing he’s ever said to me in English is “trashy” and that accompanies with hand gestures towards my crude facial hair.   

            Whenever I go east, perhaps to Gori, Tbilisi or to wherever looks interesting on a map, I pass at least three installments of refugee camps for those who fled the 2008 August War out of South Ossetia and Abkhazia.  These were built by the US.  I haven’t any photos of them currently but I’ll get some soon.  But that’s a topic for another time…I'll put up more photos of things soon but be patient, it took 3 hours to upload 4 photos.

Flats, Bats and Beer!

Things in the night:

            On 2.09.2011 I met up with a friend in front of Parliament on Rustaveli Street around 20.00.  The plan was to walk to the grocers, Populi, near Ilia Chavachadze University and buy a small amount of food and a suitable amount of beer to take back to her family’s new flat. 

            On our way there we made short talk and I was informed that the night ere this big black bird was in her room and she freaked out.  In fact, as she was telling me this it seemed the clasps of hysteria hadn’t quite released her.  Noticing that the words of description were “bird,” “big” and “black” I came to the conclusion that this must be a crow.  Then she added the word “blind” and I told her that it must be a bat.  She then said that it was like a scene from “The Birds”.  Regardless we were able to get some beers and a bag of Lays <>. 

            The building that hosts the flat is completely new and like all new buildings has several inconsistencies which can be translated simply as being unfinished.  New does not mean complete, and after much deliberation this concept does indeed hold more than a grain of truth.  Anon she began describing what appeared was going to be the biggest difficulty.  She lived on the seventh floor and the elevator still had yet to discover its purpose in life and was nothing more than a mere mountebank.  We begin our ascent up the concrete stair case carrying our libations, chips and whatever else we had and as we reach the fourth floor it has become apparent that not only has the elevator rebelled against the building but the lighting was sympathetic to its cause.  Absolute darkness engulfs us until our feet echo across the seventh landing.

            She opens the kitchen door, shrieks and slams it shut.  There is a bat in the kitchen.  The kitchen connects to the living area and I walk over and crack open the door providing a glimpse into what would become a scene of absolute carnage.  About five bats are aimlessly circling the room and it is at this point that hysteria lays claim to her senses.  Her fingers move at speeds of which I could never dream of competing as they enter a series of numbers on her phone.  She called more people than I have on any of my phones in a matter minutes.  30 minutes later her brother arrives with two others. 

            They barge in the kitchen and a few seconds go by before they streak back into the hall, slamming the door behind them.  Then they began to arm themselves with whatever they could turn into an arsenal.  I offer them my hat (both as a kind gesture and one of surrendering) but they refuse.  One disappears into the toilet and remerges with a yellow washcloth sprawled on his head.  They grab a broom and a dustpan before rushing into the living area to begin what was to be a truculent rampage. 

            Between their contumelies in Georgian, my friend’s banshee and her phone ringing the sharp thud we can hear against the wall can only be described as axiomatic.  Actually it can be described by a great many of words, including “bang” but I really wanted to use axiomatic.  The only other thing that was audible is that same cry the bats release as they are being attacked.  One goes down and the carcass is rapidly collected into the dustpan and dropped…off the seventh floor balcony.   

           

Imagine this, walking along the sidewalks in the nicer part of Tbilisi, perhaps with your significant other only to hear a dull thud.  You both look at each other, the nascent noise still fresh in your memory but unable to compute as to what it could be…you take another step and something drops at your feet.  Or rather imagine some beldame, strolling along to the market, as you do every morning the rising sun greeting your footsteps.  In addition to the usual refuse of empty beer bottles, random pieces of plastic containers that housed some sort of nondurable good the sidewalks are peppered with bats, all within a one meter radius.  Cause for alarm?  Perhaps not, but it is certainly something that will linger in the depths of one’s memory for quite sometime.

            This night time funerals continue without hesitation until the kitchen area and the connecting den are vacated of these flying creatures.  We relax for a brief moment inspecting for any damage that may have been caused by our bastinado escapade that could only be explained as one of rectitude.  They did after all invade our living space without any form of invitation.  Nothing appears to be completely ruined, yes of course the space is slightly disheveled, after all it had been rough for a few moments.  Then one of the guys looks up at the light fixture that is centered in the ceiling.  Its one of those in the shape of a large bowl, and perhaps if desired could be used as one.  Its lip rests only half an inch from the actual ceiling and it is turned on presenting us light.  Of course the light not only provides us a luxury it furnishes the startling realization that not all of the bats have been evicted from the premises.  The light is blocked in one portion, in the perfect shape of a bat….

            A step ladder materializes.  One of the boys climbs it and starts inspecting.  We go the bathroom looking for any kind of spray.  In my mind I though the best option would be to utilize a water bottle of sorts that emits a straight spray, however all we had were aerosol containers.  At least the bat would meet its fate smelling of lemons and pine trees.  15 minutes later, accompanied with a broken plastic hanger and half of the contents of a cleaning aerosol canister the bat emerges and the battle begins.  Its over quickly and the once terrified creature joins its brethren on the sidewalks below, giving the passerby’s a moment to contemplate the salient concept of life, flight and death. 

            As the night comes to a close we find two more in her room.  All in all, due to snaring wit, seven bats have been removed from Tbilisi and five people have it forever etched into their memory of a night filled with bats.  The new flat has proven to be tenable and the city of Tbilisi, while delivering mercurial situations far from prosiac, still proves that any situation can be a boon. 

            Books read since I last posted:  Lost in Mongolia; The Bastard of Istanbul; In Defense of Women (Mencken!)