We get it already- Michael Phelps can swim. NBC, which paid 14 trillion dollars- or approximately the cost of waging the war in Iraq for one weekend- or, put another way- the dollar value of Dick Cheney's Halliburton shares- is, once again, trying to make the Olympics a soap opera- all about personalities rather than athletics. Not to take anything away from Phelps' achievement, but I keep reading that he's the greatest olympic athlete ever. Hmmmm. Why? Because he has the most gold medals? Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but swimming has a motherload of events- many of them pretty damn similar (someone who is good at swimming 2 laps of a given stroke is pretty darn likely to also be good at swimming 4 or 8 laps of that stroke as well, no?) It really isn't fair to compare swimmers with athlete's that compete in sports that only have a few medal opportunities. Like what about those 4 foot tall midgets who can lift 1,000 pounds? Or how about those Cuban or Venezuelan women's volleyball players that wear those daisy duke like gym shorts?
While we are on the topic of the Olympics, why on earth is NBC spending so much time showing us beach volleyball? Does anyone actually give a damn about beach volleyball? Or are they thinking that people just want to watch women in bikinis? I have seen enough of the following sports to last me a lifetime: rowing, beach volleyball, water polo, badmitton, softball, and cycling. How about a little tennis, NBC? Anyways, what I find far more interesting is Beijing's pollution. Just show me a smog cam and people straining to breath and I'm riveted. Then mix in some interviews with Chinese officials claiming that the air is fine, and I'm happy.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Companion to Paul Theroux's Ghost Train to the Eastern Star Part 1
In the first year of the new millenium I ditched what passed for a job at the Chicago Tribune to take a (mostly) overland trip from Cairo to Shanghai. I wrote what should have been a runaway bestseller about this challenging journey called, Resumegapping- Cairo to Shanghai the hard way. But instead of gracing the bookshelves of your neighborhood Borders, this "book" languished in a dusty binder- a forlorn collection of e-mails that few people ever read. Last week, Paul Theroux released another stellar travel narrative- Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, in which he travels to many of the same places he visited on his Great Railways Bazaar trip in 1973. Theroux travels to some of the same off the map places that I visited, and for those who plan to read his book- and you should- check out what happened to me in some of the same locales. This segment below is about a memorable trip from Turkey into Georgia- the only border in the world where you travel east from Asia into Europe. Enjoy:
Blood Feuds
After three days of heavy rain in Trabzon, I set off for the Georgian border on yet another miserable morning, feeling as though I were sneaking out of town as I walked down the wet empty streets of Trabzon. Small to mid-size otogars (bus stations) in Turkey are highly perplexing places and Trabzon’s was a mess. There was no posted departure board so one must canvass the scores of competing bus company counters to determine which company has buses to your destination, when they leave and what they cost. I looked out onto a big L-shaped row of counters, there must have been 20 different bus companies- where to start? I randomly approached a counter for a company called “Metro”, where 3 men were chatting: two of them behind the counter and one leaning across it’s front. My look of bewilderment must have betrayed me.
“Where you go?” asked the fat, balding man whose belly lazily slumped across the counter.
“Batumi- Georgia” I said to looks of eyebrow crinkling confusion.
I pulled out my map to show them where I wanted to go, yet none of them seemed to understand until I said the name of the border town of Sarp.
The fat man wrote down 5.9 million on a scrap of paper. It was unclear to me if he was qualified to sell me a ticket, but I set my concerns aside since especially since he claimed the bus was leaving in 15 minutes at 9am. 5.9 million seemed like far too high a price ($10) but I had 5 million Turkish Lira left so I was prepared to unload it. I wrote down my offer, and the fat, gap toothed vulture shook his head smiling at me.
“Fixed price” he said. I wondered how people who speak little English somehow always manage to learn phrases like that. I showed gap tooth my wad of crumpled bank notes and he relented, smiling and shaking my hand to seal the transaction. He led me out to the parking lot and pointed for me to board an empty parked bus.
“Where is my ticket?” I asked incredulously. He waved his fat fingers, palm down in a fanning motion, indicating for me to relax or wait I suppose. In any event, he scurried off back into the station as I lingered in the rain.
I grudgingly headed off to what looked to be a new bus, but I smelled a rat. The side of the bus did not bear the “Metro” logo of the counter I’d just been at, it said “Ulusoy”- how could he sell me a ticket for another company? I looked at the sign on the bus window, it said, “Hopa”, not Sarp. Where the fuck was Hopa?? I yanked out my map in the rain and struggled angrily with it, before discovering that Hopa was on the Turkish side of the border- would I have to walk from there to Sarp? It all suddenly fit together, I had solved the puzzle-I was being had. But was it too late? I ran back into the otogar, my backpack ungracefully slapping against my ass to find gap tooth. I looked for him near the Metro booth but his pals would not clue me into his whereabouts, I ran around the corner and our eyes met. He looked alarmed that I was not compliantly sitting on the bus, waiting for my doctored, inflated black market ticket. He was heading towards the Ulusoy counter- that bastard! He was just going to go buy a ticket there and then give it to me! I dashed towards the booth trying to beat him there-I wanted to know the real price of the ticket to Sarp, or Hopa or wherever the fuck they were sending me. Gap tooth grabbed my arm as we collided perhaps 5 feet in front of the Ulusoy counter, he flashed a ticket at me and grabbed my arm trying to pull me in the direction of the bus. “Get off me!” I yelled angrily yanking my arm out of his grip and turning to face the uniformed Ulusoy folks.
“How much is a ticket to Sarp or Hopa?” I demanded to know as gap tooth howled his protests at them, no doubt imploring them not to tell me. A nervous young girl wrote down 2.5 million. “Bastard!” I yelled, staring at gap tooth, who had been caught red handed, right in the eyes. He came over and thrust 2.5 million into my hands and the ticket. “No fucking way” I said, demanding and getting all 5 million before thrusting his ticket back at him. I wanted him to be stuck with it, but sincerely hoped he wouldn’t use it himself. Gap tooth disappeared as I bought a legit ticket, feeling angry and shaken by the experience.
I bought some rock hard bread and cokes with my spare cash and headed out towards the bus. Just before getting on though, I decided that I wanted to teach gap tooth a lesson. I had seen a police office in the station- how could they allow gap tooth to get away with swindling foreigners? I stormed back into the station, approaching a uniformed policeman. My useless list of Turkish phrases did me no good, so I merely motioned for him to come with me, which he did. We walked over to gap tooth, who was by then reminiscing with his friends at the Metro booth. I pointed at him, fingering him as though I were staring down a police line-up. Yep that’s him- lock him up boys. I showed the cop my ticket, and wrote down 2.5 million, pointing at the Ulusoy booth, then I wrote down 5 million pointing at gap tooth, who was now already defending himself in Turkish. A small group of curious Turks formed a circle around us now, as gap tooth loudly defended himself, attracting more attention with his lusty voice. It was now 8.56, 4 minutes till blastoff. I knew that I was being slandered and I wanted to defend myself, yet I had no linguistic means to do so. After gap tooth finished his speech, the crowd and the cop looked at me, as if to say, “So what do you have to say to that?”
In desperation, I began to shout, “Thief” “Criminal” “Bastard” “Crook” “Animal”- pointing at Gap tooth, who in turn began laughing and taunting me. He seemed to be saying to the crowd, which had grown to at least 20, “This stupid American thinks there is something wrong with fleecing tourists! Ha!” His sinister looking crooked smile, his disgusting hairy chest and uni -brow gave him the look of a real parasite. He jabbed one of his fat fingers too close to my face while making some point and I pushed him forcefully away from me. He pushed back and a wave of adrenalin rushed over me, I wanted to end his miserable life, in front of the whole crowd. Alas, though the cop stepped in and shrugged at my protests as if to say, “I’m washing my hands clean of this situation”. Meanwhile gap tooth began taunting me again, and the crowd began laughing- was he mimicking me? I had hoped to, at the very least cause him some embarrassment, to let people know I was on to him. Yet as I was led out to the parking lot by the cop, I realized that Turks probably find nothing wrong with the parasitic behavior of people like Gap. I was out of my element. The cop and I walked past the Ulusoy booth and I addressed the young girl, who seemed to understand some English. “Why do you allow this guy to hawk tickets for your buses- he’s obviously not going anywhere?” But she only shrugged sympathetically. Another clash of civilizations under my belt, I grudgingly boarded the bus feeling bloodied but unbowed.
¨¨¨¨¨¨
Technically, we were driving eastward from Asia into Europe along a muddy path paralleling the Black Sea. The closer we came to the Georgian border, the worse the road became. The distance between Trabzon and Sarp, which looked so utterly insignificant on the map, would take an arduous five hours. We arrived at the dire looking village of Hopa as the rain seemed to intensify. Luckily, there was a mini bus about to leave across the border. Unluckily, it was packed to the hilt with Georgians who looked considerably more 19th century in dress and manner than the Turks. The mini bus slogged its way across a mud track, a sort of no man’s land that neither country had bothered to pave.
A few minutes into our journey we were recklessly cut off by an expensive white sports car that looked highly incongruous on this inauspicious mud path. Our driver, a scruffy, thin, middle-aged man, became enraged, blaring his horn and waving frantically for the offender to pull over. Shockingly, the sports car did just that, pulling over perhaps 30 yards in front of us. There was a buzz of chatter in our van as our driver stopped the car and got out. It was literally poring rain, what the hell was he thinking? There were about a dozen of us on the bus; all watching our driver approach the vehicle with rapt attention. We could see that an animated conversation was taking place. The sports car had put all of us in danger by recklessly passing us on such a narrow shithole of a road, but what was this proving? The concept of revenge and blood feuds has a long history in the Caucasus. Essad Bey in his 1930 tome, Twelve Secrets of the Caucasus, attempted to explain to European readers blood feud etiquette….
“Almost every tenth Caucasian is involved in some affair that has to do with a
blood feud..one should never introduce two Caucasians before finding out
in what feuds they are involved. Killing in self defense, manslaughter and
accidental homicide are not recognized by the justice of the mountains..
Vengeance is taken in the following way: Immediately after the murder,
the injured family arms for the campaign, and the house of the enemy family
is besieged. During the siege the besiegers support themselves at the
expense of the enemy, until the intermediaries are successful in concluding a
treaty according to which the murderers are permitted to move freely about their
own house and courtyard upon payment of certain damages. At this the beleaguerers withdraw, and only the close relatives of the murderer are watched. The moment the
later leaves the house, the hunt begins.”
Essad Bey goes on to note that, “blood vengeance follows not only upon murder, but also upon any other form of loss. For example a substantial theft is a ground for it, as is a love affair with a girl by which her moral value is diminished. Intercourse with animals- an abuse which is very widely practiced in the mountains- also demands blood vengeance. The animal in question is considered polluted, and the miscreant must pay the owner the whole price of the animal if he wants to escape blood vengeance.” Bey concludes that, “the law of the blood feud renders any peaceful government of the mountains an impossibility. No policeman dares arrest anybody, no judge dares punish anybody, because they would instantly be declared blood enemies of the damaged family.”
All hell broke loose, as a man who could only be described as a giant emerged from the passenger side of the sports car and came around to confront our man. The giant had at least a foot on our driver. Sensing our driver was in danger, and that the very pride of our vehicle was at stake, 6 or 7 men jumped out of the van and ran off down the mud track towards the parked sports car. I felt a tinge of guilt for not jumping out with them, I was the lone male left in a van of women and children. I didn’t want to run out in the rain, but I didn’t want to lose face either. I rationalized that by sticking around I was looking after the women and children. The potentially volatile situation seemed to have been defused, as the giant was apparently not enthusiastic about taking on 7 or 8 men at once. The driver of the sports car never did emerge from his perch. Our men returned to the van muddy and wet, smiling triumphantly; we had seemingly won the standoff, or at least taught them a lesson of some kind. Welcome to the Caucasus.
Almost the entire minibus got out at a dire looking village just before the border- only two of us were actually crossing the border: myself and a Turkish student named Aydin, who was heading to Batumi. Although he spoke little English, he seemed to have been through this border many times and would clearly be my patron. I followed him to the first hut, where we stood in the rain, waiting to pay a “3 dollar computer fee” as Aydin called it. Thankfully, we were then sent indoors, into a garage of sorts that resembled an abandoned car wash, to be questioned by an officious looking woman in full dress grays and a cute pointy hat. She spoke fluent English.
“American, my god, well what are you doing here?” she asked smiling almost flirtatiously as she scrutinized my thick blue passport of privilege.
“Just traveling” I said trying to be both vague and non-threatening.
“What do you do?” she persisted in a friendly way, as though we were chatting in a pub, instead of some obscure border crossing in a small ex-Soviet republic.
“I’m a student” I lied hoping to avoid any follow-ups.
“Welcome to Georgia, Welcome, we are lucky to have you here!” she said smiling more broadly now. “Why did you come here?”
“I’ve heard a lot about Georgia, good things about the people, the land, the culture- I wanted to see for myself.”
“Do you want to change money?” she asked in a pretty radical segue. I agreed to change some money with her, although I felt it odd to be conducting such a transaction with a border officer, but by now I surmised that we were becoming friends.
“I’ll give you a good rate- 2 lari to the dollar, better than out there- go look if you don’t believe me.”
“No, no of course not- I believe you” I reassured her as I yanked out a damp wad of American bills. She noticed that I had a few of my trusty two dollar bills.
“You have a two dollar bill?” she inquired snatching it from my hand and setting it on her desk. “THIS” she said holding up the Jeffersonian bill, “is a present for me, OK?” She smiled demurely at me, attempting to be coquettish despite her age, which must have been around 40.
I agreed that yes, the deuce would be for her, and we completed our transaction. As I hoisted my backpack on she said, “You know I’d like to go to America, maybe I’ll see you there some day” smiling broadly at me beneath her funny hat.
“I hope so, that would be nice” I said, wondering if she was fishing for my phone number, which I decided not to relinquish.
Aydin gave me a wry smile as I left the garage; he had been waiting for me and had understood the flirtation and the “present” despite the language barrier. I was like some minor celebrity, perhaps a local newscaster or some other such pseudo celebrity who had not earned their fame. She had not been interested in having any conversation with Aydin. Perhaps the opportunity to chat with a young American in this little traveled post was as close as my interlocutor would get to America. I thought mistakenly that we were free to leave, but alas, we were soon being given the once over at one final shed, which had four soldiers in it. None of them spoke a word of English. A heated argument ensued between Aydin and the soldiers. I assumed that they must have been giving him a hard time for some reason; I shamelessly wondered if his problem was going to hold me up, should I ditch him? Aydin slammed his bad down on the ground and sat on the cement, totally disgusted. We were at a momentary standstill that I did not understand. Rain pored down upon us. The soldiers had our passports. Life was beginning to suck. Royally. I was just about to go summons my new girlfriend but Aydin motioned for me to stay with him. Moments later,
the soldiers seemed to have a change of heart and we were off.
Since we were both heading to Batumi we split the only cab in sight. I felt a bit apprehensive, not knowing or understanding what motives Aydin might possibly have. Yet in the rain at this remote border, there seemed no other option. We hopped into an old white Lada with a cracked windshield. Aydin wrote on a piece of paper that we would each pay 2.5 laris, or a buck and a quarter each to get to Batumi, which was half and hour away. Batumi looked frightening in the rain, there was garbage and muck everywhere, the homes looked to all be in a state of disrepair, like an old disused horror movie set. We arrived at Aydin’s apartment building, which was a tall, ugly Soviet looking gulag.
Another big and incomprehensible (to me) argument ensued between the driver and Aydin. Aydin signaled for me to come with him and I did as I was told.
“You come, my home” was all he said. What the hell was going on? Why was I going to his house- to be beaten and robbed? I decided to put my fate in his hands and go with the flow.
Aydin introduced me to his roommates, three other Turks studying in Batumi- one of whom spoke fluent English. Their apartment was neat and well furnished, especially given the bleak exterior of the building. I was given a pair of slippers to wear and a hot cup of Turkish coffee. Aydin was understandably relieved to finally have a translator. Abdullah, who made extra cash by teaching English, attempted to explain the events of the last hour to me.
“Aydin says that at the border they were demanding you give them ten dollars, the soldiers told him that Americans are rich so they must pay a special tax- he told them you would not pay, that’s why he got so upset.”
So I was the cause of the delay! I immediately felt guilty for considering ditching him at the border-he had saved me ten bucks.
“What about in the taxi- what was that argument about?” I asked curious to know
if I was being subjected to another foreigner “tax”.
“He says that once the driver found out you were American, he insisted that you pay more, so Aydin wanted you to get out with him, because he knew you would be in trouble.”
I thanked Aydin profusely and he seemed genuinely bashful at the accolades he was receiving. Abdullah turned to me and said, “You two have been through much together, you are brothers now.”
I passed around some pictures I had of my girlfriend Jen, my family and also of Chicago and Egypt. The guys passed them around as they sat on the couch looking at them in wonderment. I could almost anticipate the next question, which came from Cendel, the youngest member of the group at 19.
“Where do you find money to travel like this?” he asked.
I had told them I was a student and that I’d saved up for three years for my trip. I tried to impress upon them that I was traveling on a tight budget but I don’t think they could comprehend what I was up to. The idea of traveling around the world was as foreign to them as baseball and apple pie. I told the guys that I was planning on taking the next train to Tbilisi and was told that Cendel would go to the station to get my ticket. It was still poring rain outside, so the very idea of having my ticket delivered to me appealed to me tremendously but I could not allow it. My American suspicion told me that these guys were up to something- would they take a commission? Could it be possible that they were just incredibly kind? I didn’t’ know, but insisted on going with them to the station.
Abdullah and Aydin did not want me to be put out, “Cendel will get the ticket, and we will stay here and watch Braveheart on video!”
The idea of sitting in their cozy apartment and watching Braveheart on a rainy day sounded wonderful but I insisted that we all go the station- what better thing to do then all band together to take an American to the train station in a downpour?
As Cendel, Aydin and I headed to the door I suddenly panicked realizing that I’d taken the lock off my bag to show them my photos. My backpack was sitting, half opened right next to their front door, with over $300 in cash and my camera in it. Abullah and their third roommate, whose name was beyond my comprehension, weren’t coming to the station- would they help themselves to my things? I faced a split second decision: if I bent down and locked my bag up, they would have clearly seen that I didn’t trust them and thus wasn’t an option I decided. I decided to throw the ball in their court,
“Should I bring my bag?” I asked, hoping against hope they’d say yes.
But Cendel said it wasn’t necessary since the train didn’t leave until 10pm. I decided to trust them and headed out with them into the miserable afternoon.
We took two different shared minibuses across town to get to the station, passing along cratered streets that had not been repaired in decades. Aydin insisted on paying for both rides, to my great embarrassment. With the help of Cendel’s translation, they helped me buy a $7.50 first class sleeper ticket to Tbilisi, even going to the trouble of taking me on the train to show me the difference between 1st and second class. The difference in price was modest, but I did not want to reinforce their image of me as a free spending rich American so I asked Aydin which class he would travel in if he were going to Tbilisi. Thankfully, he said if it were up to him, he’d ride first class, which made me feel completely justified in the “splurge”. The first class cabins did look relatively plush given the dinginess of the surroundings.
Cendel, who had a dark complexion and hailed from Izmir, opined that I’d be” riding with Shevernadze (the president of Georgia) on this train”.
Shevernadze they told me, was in fact running for re-election on that very day.
Ticket safely in hand we repaired to aTurkish restaurant near the center of town. The boys were clearly regulars, as they kissed members of the staff upon arrival. Cendel began to tell me their stories over delicious plates of marinated meat and steamed rice. They all came from different parts of Turkey and none of them had wanted to study in Batumi.
“None of us was accepted to the University’s we wanted to go to, so we were forced to come here” he said bluntly.
Cendel had been studying English Language and literature and Aydin engineering.
We chatted on amiably as the rain continued to pour down, and once again they insisted on paying the bill. They made a point of saying that I was their guest and that I’d do the same for them if they were in America. The sad fact was that a) they’d probably never get a visa to enter America and b) if they did, it would be unlikely they’d see this kind of hospitality. In America people are suspicious of outsiders, our curiosities dulled by fear and uncertainty. I became depressed thinking about the Darwinian aspects of our country but I did not disappoint them by cluing them into my opinions.
Back at their apartment, I found an excuse to look in my backpack and was happy to find all of my money and things still there. Their hospitality had been sincere kindness. We spent a few hours looking at photos and chatting- until it was time for me to leave. They insisted on seeing me off, literally escorting me right into my “Shevarnadze compartment”. I felt so touched as they each kissed my cheeks and told me how happy they were to have met me. I would be leaving behind family in Batumi, despite the fact that I’d been there for less than 24 hours.
¨¨¨¨¨
I shared my “Shevardnadze” compartment with Ruslan, a 20 year old Georgian who was on his way back to the capitol. I asked him where he learned to speak such good English.
“I was an exchange student in a small town outside of Winston Salem, North Carolina my senior year of high school” he said speaking in a quiet, measured tone. I cringed to hear what he thought of life in a small town in the south, but couldn’t resist asking.
“It was hard to fit in, I wanted to go home most of the year- my house was far from town and I had no car so it was difficult. By the end of the year I was making more friends, but by then it was time to come back.”
“What kind of things did high school kids do for fun where you lived?” I asked.
“They’d go into the woods to drink, shoot their guns and have sex” he said, kind of embarrassed to break this news to me. “The only thing people were interested to know about my country was that we had no drinking age- they liked that.”
“Did you vote in the election today?” I asked hoping to change the topic.
“Yeah, I voted for Shevardnadze- there is no one else, besides the West likes him for some reason, so we think maybe he can keep the aid flowing in.”
“But there seems to be some opposition to him, wasn’t he almost assassinated recently?” I asked.
“Twice in fact, but they didn’t get him and no one was arrested.”
“Who’s they?” I asked.
“Mafia probably, you see this is a hard time for us, we have lost Abkhazia, S. Ossetia and now also Ajaria, where I am originally from, is seeking more autonomy.”
“Why are there so many regions breaking away?” I asked.
“Well, Ossetians and Abkhazians are not Georgians, they have their own languages and cultures, but they’ve just historically been incorporated onto our land. I’m Ajarian, we are Georgians, we share the Georgian language. My grandmother is Abkhazian, she doesn’t even speak Georgian, you see.”
“How did Georgia lose Abkhazia?” I asked.
“There was a small band of Abkhazian soldiers who wanted independence, but Russia gave them money and weapons…they wanted to weaken us you see, so eventually we gave up- we couldn’t take on the Russians.”
“No one even knows about Abkhazia being a sovereign country, do you think anyone is going to recognize them as independent?” I asked.
“No- I think we are going to get it back eventually, it’s a very rich land, it has a great coastline- people used to vacation in Abkhazia- Shevarnadze is pledging to win it back, but I think this is only an election promise.”
I found Ruslan’s political savvy to be remarkable for a twenty year old, his colleagues in North Carolina would probably be hard pressed to name their own Senators.
“Do you think your clan, the Ajarians will eventually want independence?” I asked.
“No, just some kind of special status- it’s a ploy to get more money from Tbilisi, really.”
Our conversation turned to Tbilisi, I was curious what the impact of foreign investment was on the capitol.
“Lately, there seem to be a lot of foreigners in Tbilisi, but I’m not sure if they are good investors, or just mafia.. but yeah there are Western companies coming in, Westerners think Georgia is cheap, so they run around buying drinks and screwing all the best girls” Ruslan shook his head and laughed a bitter chuckle, I could tell he was rankled.
“You were young during the communist period, but have you seen much benefit from the end of communism?” I asked.
“Not really, in communist times we had jobs and health care and a lot of money, but there was nothing in the stores, nothing to buy. Now we have everything to buy but no money. Local companies cannot compete with Western ones- you’ll see there are Marlboro billboards all over Tbilisi- people have been brainwashed that Western goods are the best and local things are shit, local companies have no chance against all the advertising these Western companies are doing. Everyone thinks they must have snickers now for example, but we have our own chocolate that’s better!”
I tried to tell him that I believed that the hunger for Western goods was more a temporary phase, a reaction to newfound freedom that might subside in another ten years once people learn to invest and spend to support local industries. Ruslan wasn’t buying it though.
“You have to understand something, we have many foreign aid people here already who are supposed to be helping us improve our economy, your USAID is here, but they are doing nothing for Georgian people! They are spending 60K per month living at the Sheraton, but they aren’t helping people. You see, Georgia is important to America, they want to run an oil pipeline here, Caspian oil from Azerbaijan.”
As we continued to speak into the night old ladies and young boys came through the corridors selling “limonota” and other beverages from tattered woolen sacks. Just as we finished the two tall beers Ruslan had bought us, a man from the next compartment came in with two more- toasting us for no apparent reason.
“What was that, do you know him? Why did he just buy us beers?” I asked perplexed but pleased.
“It’s Georgia” Ruslan said with a shrug.
“Sometimes people start buying each other drinks in a bar, because if some people receive two drinks- they send back four- and so on. So if you don’t have much money, you might buy drinks and hope you get more in return.”
“So we need to buy him 4 beers now?” I asked naively.
“Technically yes, but its late now so don’t worry.”
Ruslan and I talked late into the night, he on his bunk and me on mine, laughing and kidding as though we were at a sleep over. Each time there would be a period of silence I wondered if he was asleep, but then conversation would start up again, as if we were testing each other to see who’d fall asleep first.
Oddly, I feel less disoriented waking up on a train than I do in my own bed at home. Perhaps the motion gives me pleasant dreams or maybe it’s only waking up in the same damn place every day that unsettles and disturbs me. As we alighted onto the dark platform, I looked at my watch: it had taken 11 and a half hours to travel 300 miles, at this rate I’d never make it to Shanghai to meet Jen.
Blood Feuds
After three days of heavy rain in Trabzon, I set off for the Georgian border on yet another miserable morning, feeling as though I were sneaking out of town as I walked down the wet empty streets of Trabzon. Small to mid-size otogars (bus stations) in Turkey are highly perplexing places and Trabzon’s was a mess. There was no posted departure board so one must canvass the scores of competing bus company counters to determine which company has buses to your destination, when they leave and what they cost. I looked out onto a big L-shaped row of counters, there must have been 20 different bus companies- where to start? I randomly approached a counter for a company called “Metro”, where 3 men were chatting: two of them behind the counter and one leaning across it’s front. My look of bewilderment must have betrayed me.
“Where you go?” asked the fat, balding man whose belly lazily slumped across the counter.
“Batumi- Georgia” I said to looks of eyebrow crinkling confusion.
I pulled out my map to show them where I wanted to go, yet none of them seemed to understand until I said the name of the border town of Sarp.
The fat man wrote down 5.9 million on a scrap of paper. It was unclear to me if he was qualified to sell me a ticket, but I set my concerns aside since especially since he claimed the bus was leaving in 15 minutes at 9am. 5.9 million seemed like far too high a price ($10) but I had 5 million Turkish Lira left so I was prepared to unload it. I wrote down my offer, and the fat, gap toothed vulture shook his head smiling at me.
“Fixed price” he said. I wondered how people who speak little English somehow always manage to learn phrases like that. I showed gap tooth my wad of crumpled bank notes and he relented, smiling and shaking my hand to seal the transaction. He led me out to the parking lot and pointed for me to board an empty parked bus.
“Where is my ticket?” I asked incredulously. He waved his fat fingers, palm down in a fanning motion, indicating for me to relax or wait I suppose. In any event, he scurried off back into the station as I lingered in the rain.
I grudgingly headed off to what looked to be a new bus, but I smelled a rat. The side of the bus did not bear the “Metro” logo of the counter I’d just been at, it said “Ulusoy”- how could he sell me a ticket for another company? I looked at the sign on the bus window, it said, “Hopa”, not Sarp. Where the fuck was Hopa?? I yanked out my map in the rain and struggled angrily with it, before discovering that Hopa was on the Turkish side of the border- would I have to walk from there to Sarp? It all suddenly fit together, I had solved the puzzle-I was being had. But was it too late? I ran back into the otogar, my backpack ungracefully slapping against my ass to find gap tooth. I looked for him near the Metro booth but his pals would not clue me into his whereabouts, I ran around the corner and our eyes met. He looked alarmed that I was not compliantly sitting on the bus, waiting for my doctored, inflated black market ticket. He was heading towards the Ulusoy counter- that bastard! He was just going to go buy a ticket there and then give it to me! I dashed towards the booth trying to beat him there-I wanted to know the real price of the ticket to Sarp, or Hopa or wherever the fuck they were sending me. Gap tooth grabbed my arm as we collided perhaps 5 feet in front of the Ulusoy counter, he flashed a ticket at me and grabbed my arm trying to pull me in the direction of the bus. “Get off me!” I yelled angrily yanking my arm out of his grip and turning to face the uniformed Ulusoy folks.
“How much is a ticket to Sarp or Hopa?” I demanded to know as gap tooth howled his protests at them, no doubt imploring them not to tell me. A nervous young girl wrote down 2.5 million. “Bastard!” I yelled, staring at gap tooth, who had been caught red handed, right in the eyes. He came over and thrust 2.5 million into my hands and the ticket. “No fucking way” I said, demanding and getting all 5 million before thrusting his ticket back at him. I wanted him to be stuck with it, but sincerely hoped he wouldn’t use it himself. Gap tooth disappeared as I bought a legit ticket, feeling angry and shaken by the experience.
I bought some rock hard bread and cokes with my spare cash and headed out towards the bus. Just before getting on though, I decided that I wanted to teach gap tooth a lesson. I had seen a police office in the station- how could they allow gap tooth to get away with swindling foreigners? I stormed back into the station, approaching a uniformed policeman. My useless list of Turkish phrases did me no good, so I merely motioned for him to come with me, which he did. We walked over to gap tooth, who was by then reminiscing with his friends at the Metro booth. I pointed at him, fingering him as though I were staring down a police line-up. Yep that’s him- lock him up boys. I showed the cop my ticket, and wrote down 2.5 million, pointing at the Ulusoy booth, then I wrote down 5 million pointing at gap tooth, who was now already defending himself in Turkish. A small group of curious Turks formed a circle around us now, as gap tooth loudly defended himself, attracting more attention with his lusty voice. It was now 8.56, 4 minutes till blastoff. I knew that I was being slandered and I wanted to defend myself, yet I had no linguistic means to do so. After gap tooth finished his speech, the crowd and the cop looked at me, as if to say, “So what do you have to say to that?”
In desperation, I began to shout, “Thief” “Criminal” “Bastard” “Crook” “Animal”- pointing at Gap tooth, who in turn began laughing and taunting me. He seemed to be saying to the crowd, which had grown to at least 20, “This stupid American thinks there is something wrong with fleecing tourists! Ha!” His sinister looking crooked smile, his disgusting hairy chest and uni -brow gave him the look of a real parasite. He jabbed one of his fat fingers too close to my face while making some point and I pushed him forcefully away from me. He pushed back and a wave of adrenalin rushed over me, I wanted to end his miserable life, in front of the whole crowd. Alas, though the cop stepped in and shrugged at my protests as if to say, “I’m washing my hands clean of this situation”. Meanwhile gap tooth began taunting me again, and the crowd began laughing- was he mimicking me? I had hoped to, at the very least cause him some embarrassment, to let people know I was on to him. Yet as I was led out to the parking lot by the cop, I realized that Turks probably find nothing wrong with the parasitic behavior of people like Gap. I was out of my element. The cop and I walked past the Ulusoy booth and I addressed the young girl, who seemed to understand some English. “Why do you allow this guy to hawk tickets for your buses- he’s obviously not going anywhere?” But she only shrugged sympathetically. Another clash of civilizations under my belt, I grudgingly boarded the bus feeling bloodied but unbowed.
¨¨¨¨¨¨
Technically, we were driving eastward from Asia into Europe along a muddy path paralleling the Black Sea. The closer we came to the Georgian border, the worse the road became. The distance between Trabzon and Sarp, which looked so utterly insignificant on the map, would take an arduous five hours. We arrived at the dire looking village of Hopa as the rain seemed to intensify. Luckily, there was a mini bus about to leave across the border. Unluckily, it was packed to the hilt with Georgians who looked considerably more 19th century in dress and manner than the Turks. The mini bus slogged its way across a mud track, a sort of no man’s land that neither country had bothered to pave.
A few minutes into our journey we were recklessly cut off by an expensive white sports car that looked highly incongruous on this inauspicious mud path. Our driver, a scruffy, thin, middle-aged man, became enraged, blaring his horn and waving frantically for the offender to pull over. Shockingly, the sports car did just that, pulling over perhaps 30 yards in front of us. There was a buzz of chatter in our van as our driver stopped the car and got out. It was literally poring rain, what the hell was he thinking? There were about a dozen of us on the bus; all watching our driver approach the vehicle with rapt attention. We could see that an animated conversation was taking place. The sports car had put all of us in danger by recklessly passing us on such a narrow shithole of a road, but what was this proving? The concept of revenge and blood feuds has a long history in the Caucasus. Essad Bey in his 1930 tome, Twelve Secrets of the Caucasus, attempted to explain to European readers blood feud etiquette….
“Almost every tenth Caucasian is involved in some affair that has to do with a
blood feud..one should never introduce two Caucasians before finding out
in what feuds they are involved. Killing in self defense, manslaughter and
accidental homicide are not recognized by the justice of the mountains..
Vengeance is taken in the following way: Immediately after the murder,
the injured family arms for the campaign, and the house of the enemy family
is besieged. During the siege the besiegers support themselves at the
expense of the enemy, until the intermediaries are successful in concluding a
treaty according to which the murderers are permitted to move freely about their
own house and courtyard upon payment of certain damages. At this the beleaguerers withdraw, and only the close relatives of the murderer are watched. The moment the
later leaves the house, the hunt begins.”
Essad Bey goes on to note that, “blood vengeance follows not only upon murder, but also upon any other form of loss. For example a substantial theft is a ground for it, as is a love affair with a girl by which her moral value is diminished. Intercourse with animals- an abuse which is very widely practiced in the mountains- also demands blood vengeance. The animal in question is considered polluted, and the miscreant must pay the owner the whole price of the animal if he wants to escape blood vengeance.” Bey concludes that, “the law of the blood feud renders any peaceful government of the mountains an impossibility. No policeman dares arrest anybody, no judge dares punish anybody, because they would instantly be declared blood enemies of the damaged family.”
All hell broke loose, as a man who could only be described as a giant emerged from the passenger side of the sports car and came around to confront our man. The giant had at least a foot on our driver. Sensing our driver was in danger, and that the very pride of our vehicle was at stake, 6 or 7 men jumped out of the van and ran off down the mud track towards the parked sports car. I felt a tinge of guilt for not jumping out with them, I was the lone male left in a van of women and children. I didn’t want to run out in the rain, but I didn’t want to lose face either. I rationalized that by sticking around I was looking after the women and children. The potentially volatile situation seemed to have been defused, as the giant was apparently not enthusiastic about taking on 7 or 8 men at once. The driver of the sports car never did emerge from his perch. Our men returned to the van muddy and wet, smiling triumphantly; we had seemingly won the standoff, or at least taught them a lesson of some kind. Welcome to the Caucasus.
Almost the entire minibus got out at a dire looking village just before the border- only two of us were actually crossing the border: myself and a Turkish student named Aydin, who was heading to Batumi. Although he spoke little English, he seemed to have been through this border many times and would clearly be my patron. I followed him to the first hut, where we stood in the rain, waiting to pay a “3 dollar computer fee” as Aydin called it. Thankfully, we were then sent indoors, into a garage of sorts that resembled an abandoned car wash, to be questioned by an officious looking woman in full dress grays and a cute pointy hat. She spoke fluent English.
“American, my god, well what are you doing here?” she asked smiling almost flirtatiously as she scrutinized my thick blue passport of privilege.
“Just traveling” I said trying to be both vague and non-threatening.
“What do you do?” she persisted in a friendly way, as though we were chatting in a pub, instead of some obscure border crossing in a small ex-Soviet republic.
“I’m a student” I lied hoping to avoid any follow-ups.
“Welcome to Georgia, Welcome, we are lucky to have you here!” she said smiling more broadly now. “Why did you come here?”
“I’ve heard a lot about Georgia, good things about the people, the land, the culture- I wanted to see for myself.”
“Do you want to change money?” she asked in a pretty radical segue. I agreed to change some money with her, although I felt it odd to be conducting such a transaction with a border officer, but by now I surmised that we were becoming friends.
“I’ll give you a good rate- 2 lari to the dollar, better than out there- go look if you don’t believe me.”
“No, no of course not- I believe you” I reassured her as I yanked out a damp wad of American bills. She noticed that I had a few of my trusty two dollar bills.
“You have a two dollar bill?” she inquired snatching it from my hand and setting it on her desk. “THIS” she said holding up the Jeffersonian bill, “is a present for me, OK?” She smiled demurely at me, attempting to be coquettish despite her age, which must have been around 40.
I agreed that yes, the deuce would be for her, and we completed our transaction. As I hoisted my backpack on she said, “You know I’d like to go to America, maybe I’ll see you there some day” smiling broadly at me beneath her funny hat.
“I hope so, that would be nice” I said, wondering if she was fishing for my phone number, which I decided not to relinquish.
Aydin gave me a wry smile as I left the garage; he had been waiting for me and had understood the flirtation and the “present” despite the language barrier. I was like some minor celebrity, perhaps a local newscaster or some other such pseudo celebrity who had not earned their fame. She had not been interested in having any conversation with Aydin. Perhaps the opportunity to chat with a young American in this little traveled post was as close as my interlocutor would get to America. I thought mistakenly that we were free to leave, but alas, we were soon being given the once over at one final shed, which had four soldiers in it. None of them spoke a word of English. A heated argument ensued between Aydin and the soldiers. I assumed that they must have been giving him a hard time for some reason; I shamelessly wondered if his problem was going to hold me up, should I ditch him? Aydin slammed his bad down on the ground and sat on the cement, totally disgusted. We were at a momentary standstill that I did not understand. Rain pored down upon us. The soldiers had our passports. Life was beginning to suck. Royally. I was just about to go summons my new girlfriend but Aydin motioned for me to stay with him. Moments later,
the soldiers seemed to have a change of heart and we were off.
Since we were both heading to Batumi we split the only cab in sight. I felt a bit apprehensive, not knowing or understanding what motives Aydin might possibly have. Yet in the rain at this remote border, there seemed no other option. We hopped into an old white Lada with a cracked windshield. Aydin wrote on a piece of paper that we would each pay 2.5 laris, or a buck and a quarter each to get to Batumi, which was half and hour away. Batumi looked frightening in the rain, there was garbage and muck everywhere, the homes looked to all be in a state of disrepair, like an old disused horror movie set. We arrived at Aydin’s apartment building, which was a tall, ugly Soviet looking gulag.
Another big and incomprehensible (to me) argument ensued between the driver and Aydin. Aydin signaled for me to come with him and I did as I was told.
“You come, my home” was all he said. What the hell was going on? Why was I going to his house- to be beaten and robbed? I decided to put my fate in his hands and go with the flow.
Aydin introduced me to his roommates, three other Turks studying in Batumi- one of whom spoke fluent English. Their apartment was neat and well furnished, especially given the bleak exterior of the building. I was given a pair of slippers to wear and a hot cup of Turkish coffee. Aydin was understandably relieved to finally have a translator. Abdullah, who made extra cash by teaching English, attempted to explain the events of the last hour to me.
“Aydin says that at the border they were demanding you give them ten dollars, the soldiers told him that Americans are rich so they must pay a special tax- he told them you would not pay, that’s why he got so upset.”
So I was the cause of the delay! I immediately felt guilty for considering ditching him at the border-he had saved me ten bucks.
“What about in the taxi- what was that argument about?” I asked curious to know
if I was being subjected to another foreigner “tax”.
“He says that once the driver found out you were American, he insisted that you pay more, so Aydin wanted you to get out with him, because he knew you would be in trouble.”
I thanked Aydin profusely and he seemed genuinely bashful at the accolades he was receiving. Abdullah turned to me and said, “You two have been through much together, you are brothers now.”
I passed around some pictures I had of my girlfriend Jen, my family and also of Chicago and Egypt. The guys passed them around as they sat on the couch looking at them in wonderment. I could almost anticipate the next question, which came from Cendel, the youngest member of the group at 19.
“Where do you find money to travel like this?” he asked.
I had told them I was a student and that I’d saved up for three years for my trip. I tried to impress upon them that I was traveling on a tight budget but I don’t think they could comprehend what I was up to. The idea of traveling around the world was as foreign to them as baseball and apple pie. I told the guys that I was planning on taking the next train to Tbilisi and was told that Cendel would go to the station to get my ticket. It was still poring rain outside, so the very idea of having my ticket delivered to me appealed to me tremendously but I could not allow it. My American suspicion told me that these guys were up to something- would they take a commission? Could it be possible that they were just incredibly kind? I didn’t’ know, but insisted on going with them to the station.
Abdullah and Aydin did not want me to be put out, “Cendel will get the ticket, and we will stay here and watch Braveheart on video!”
The idea of sitting in their cozy apartment and watching Braveheart on a rainy day sounded wonderful but I insisted that we all go the station- what better thing to do then all band together to take an American to the train station in a downpour?
As Cendel, Aydin and I headed to the door I suddenly panicked realizing that I’d taken the lock off my bag to show them my photos. My backpack was sitting, half opened right next to their front door, with over $300 in cash and my camera in it. Abullah and their third roommate, whose name was beyond my comprehension, weren’t coming to the station- would they help themselves to my things? I faced a split second decision: if I bent down and locked my bag up, they would have clearly seen that I didn’t trust them and thus wasn’t an option I decided. I decided to throw the ball in their court,
“Should I bring my bag?” I asked, hoping against hope they’d say yes.
But Cendel said it wasn’t necessary since the train didn’t leave until 10pm. I decided to trust them and headed out with them into the miserable afternoon.
We took two different shared minibuses across town to get to the station, passing along cratered streets that had not been repaired in decades. Aydin insisted on paying for both rides, to my great embarrassment. With the help of Cendel’s translation, they helped me buy a $7.50 first class sleeper ticket to Tbilisi, even going to the trouble of taking me on the train to show me the difference between 1st and second class. The difference in price was modest, but I did not want to reinforce their image of me as a free spending rich American so I asked Aydin which class he would travel in if he were going to Tbilisi. Thankfully, he said if it were up to him, he’d ride first class, which made me feel completely justified in the “splurge”. The first class cabins did look relatively plush given the dinginess of the surroundings.
Cendel, who had a dark complexion and hailed from Izmir, opined that I’d be” riding with Shevernadze (the president of Georgia) on this train”.
Shevernadze they told me, was in fact running for re-election on that very day.
Ticket safely in hand we repaired to aTurkish restaurant near the center of town. The boys were clearly regulars, as they kissed members of the staff upon arrival. Cendel began to tell me their stories over delicious plates of marinated meat and steamed rice. They all came from different parts of Turkey and none of them had wanted to study in Batumi.
“None of us was accepted to the University’s we wanted to go to, so we were forced to come here” he said bluntly.
Cendel had been studying English Language and literature and Aydin engineering.
We chatted on amiably as the rain continued to pour down, and once again they insisted on paying the bill. They made a point of saying that I was their guest and that I’d do the same for them if they were in America. The sad fact was that a) they’d probably never get a visa to enter America and b) if they did, it would be unlikely they’d see this kind of hospitality. In America people are suspicious of outsiders, our curiosities dulled by fear and uncertainty. I became depressed thinking about the Darwinian aspects of our country but I did not disappoint them by cluing them into my opinions.
Back at their apartment, I found an excuse to look in my backpack and was happy to find all of my money and things still there. Their hospitality had been sincere kindness. We spent a few hours looking at photos and chatting- until it was time for me to leave. They insisted on seeing me off, literally escorting me right into my “Shevarnadze compartment”. I felt so touched as they each kissed my cheeks and told me how happy they were to have met me. I would be leaving behind family in Batumi, despite the fact that I’d been there for less than 24 hours.
¨¨¨¨¨
I shared my “Shevardnadze” compartment with Ruslan, a 20 year old Georgian who was on his way back to the capitol. I asked him where he learned to speak such good English.
“I was an exchange student in a small town outside of Winston Salem, North Carolina my senior year of high school” he said speaking in a quiet, measured tone. I cringed to hear what he thought of life in a small town in the south, but couldn’t resist asking.
“It was hard to fit in, I wanted to go home most of the year- my house was far from town and I had no car so it was difficult. By the end of the year I was making more friends, but by then it was time to come back.”
“What kind of things did high school kids do for fun where you lived?” I asked.
“They’d go into the woods to drink, shoot their guns and have sex” he said, kind of embarrassed to break this news to me. “The only thing people were interested to know about my country was that we had no drinking age- they liked that.”
“Did you vote in the election today?” I asked hoping to change the topic.
“Yeah, I voted for Shevardnadze- there is no one else, besides the West likes him for some reason, so we think maybe he can keep the aid flowing in.”
“But there seems to be some opposition to him, wasn’t he almost assassinated recently?” I asked.
“Twice in fact, but they didn’t get him and no one was arrested.”
“Who’s they?” I asked.
“Mafia probably, you see this is a hard time for us, we have lost Abkhazia, S. Ossetia and now also Ajaria, where I am originally from, is seeking more autonomy.”
“Why are there so many regions breaking away?” I asked.
“Well, Ossetians and Abkhazians are not Georgians, they have their own languages and cultures, but they’ve just historically been incorporated onto our land. I’m Ajarian, we are Georgians, we share the Georgian language. My grandmother is Abkhazian, she doesn’t even speak Georgian, you see.”
“How did Georgia lose Abkhazia?” I asked.
“There was a small band of Abkhazian soldiers who wanted independence, but Russia gave them money and weapons…they wanted to weaken us you see, so eventually we gave up- we couldn’t take on the Russians.”
“No one even knows about Abkhazia being a sovereign country, do you think anyone is going to recognize them as independent?” I asked.
“No- I think we are going to get it back eventually, it’s a very rich land, it has a great coastline- people used to vacation in Abkhazia- Shevarnadze is pledging to win it back, but I think this is only an election promise.”
I found Ruslan’s political savvy to be remarkable for a twenty year old, his colleagues in North Carolina would probably be hard pressed to name their own Senators.
“Do you think your clan, the Ajarians will eventually want independence?” I asked.
“No, just some kind of special status- it’s a ploy to get more money from Tbilisi, really.”
Our conversation turned to Tbilisi, I was curious what the impact of foreign investment was on the capitol.
“Lately, there seem to be a lot of foreigners in Tbilisi, but I’m not sure if they are good investors, or just mafia.. but yeah there are Western companies coming in, Westerners think Georgia is cheap, so they run around buying drinks and screwing all the best girls” Ruslan shook his head and laughed a bitter chuckle, I could tell he was rankled.
“You were young during the communist period, but have you seen much benefit from the end of communism?” I asked.
“Not really, in communist times we had jobs and health care and a lot of money, but there was nothing in the stores, nothing to buy. Now we have everything to buy but no money. Local companies cannot compete with Western ones- you’ll see there are Marlboro billboards all over Tbilisi- people have been brainwashed that Western goods are the best and local things are shit, local companies have no chance against all the advertising these Western companies are doing. Everyone thinks they must have snickers now for example, but we have our own chocolate that’s better!”
I tried to tell him that I believed that the hunger for Western goods was more a temporary phase, a reaction to newfound freedom that might subside in another ten years once people learn to invest and spend to support local industries. Ruslan wasn’t buying it though.
“You have to understand something, we have many foreign aid people here already who are supposed to be helping us improve our economy, your USAID is here, but they are doing nothing for Georgian people! They are spending 60K per month living at the Sheraton, but they aren’t helping people. You see, Georgia is important to America, they want to run an oil pipeline here, Caspian oil from Azerbaijan.”
As we continued to speak into the night old ladies and young boys came through the corridors selling “limonota” and other beverages from tattered woolen sacks. Just as we finished the two tall beers Ruslan had bought us, a man from the next compartment came in with two more- toasting us for no apparent reason.
“What was that, do you know him? Why did he just buy us beers?” I asked perplexed but pleased.
“It’s Georgia” Ruslan said with a shrug.
“Sometimes people start buying each other drinks in a bar, because if some people receive two drinks- they send back four- and so on. So if you don’t have much money, you might buy drinks and hope you get more in return.”
“So we need to buy him 4 beers now?” I asked naively.
“Technically yes, but its late now so don’t worry.”
Ruslan and I talked late into the night, he on his bunk and me on mine, laughing and kidding as though we were at a sleep over. Each time there would be a period of silence I wondered if he was asleep, but then conversation would start up again, as if we were testing each other to see who’d fall asleep first.
Oddly, I feel less disoriented waking up on a train than I do in my own bed at home. Perhaps the motion gives me pleasant dreams or maybe it’s only waking up in the same damn place every day that unsettles and disturbs me. As we alighted onto the dark platform, I looked at my watch: it had taken 11 and a half hours to travel 300 miles, at this rate I’d never make it to Shanghai to meet Jen.
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