There is no such thing as a scheduled time of departure in the former Soviet Republic of Georgia. I arrived at Tbilisi's Didube bus station/bazaar at10:00 a.m., a little hung over, and asked a driver when the next mini-bus would head north to the Caucasus mountain outpost of Kazbegi.
"Ten minutes," he said not very convincingly.
“Ten minutes” in Georgia actually meant, “as soon as the bus is beyond what any reasonable person would consider hazardously full.” I would have to wait.
Didube, in addition to being a transport terminal, is a thriving marketplace where one can witness firsthand Georgia's entrepreneurial class. Tough looking older people from the countryside sold produce out of the trunks of battered cars, and on top of cardboard boxes, while freelance drivers yelled out the names of various destinations to the general public.
Places like Didube had become quite familiar to me on my quest to travel from Cairo to Shanghai by land and sea in the spring and summer of the year 2000. Prevailing wisdom dictates that globalization has shrunk the planet, and that no place on earth is out of reach for the modern traveler. Indeed, when one flies from one large city to the next, the world can seem to be a pretty small place, but when you stay connected to the earth the world is still pretty staggeringly huge and incomprehensible. Thousands of towns and villages and transport hubs like Didube exist where the onrush of globalization seems to be moving more at a trickle than an avalanche, but you don’t see these places if you fly from one city to the next.
Georgia is a country that many people fly over, but very few actually travel through. I had entered through Turkey crossing the only open frontier in the world (the Turkey-Armenia border is closed) where you can travel east to get from Asia back into Europe. The frontier itself is a true no-man’s land- neither country has bothered to pave the roads near the border, so it is essentially a mud track that passes through a few spectacularly forlorn villages on both sides. My plan was to spend some time in Georgia, before taking a ferry from Batumi into the Ukraine, although in reality, I had no idea if this voyage could still be made.
Our tottering old minibus finally pulled out 80 minutes after the initial ten minutes had expired. Passengers got on and off the minibus at various points on the road, never discussing price with the driver. At first, I found it hard to believe the five-hour ride to Kazbegi was only 6 lari ($3). But the sardine like seating arrangement and the utter disrepair of the road quickly mitigated my conviction that I was getting a bargain. As the snow capped Caucasus loomed on the horizon, the road deteriorated even further, and huge boulders and potholes the size of the road impeded our progress. The road to Kazbegi is closed in the wintertime leaving huge areas of the country cut off from the world for the season. If someone has a serious medical problem in Kazbegi in the winter or had a craving for a pint of Ben and Jerry's, he'd have to wait until spring to reach a hospital and perhaps even longer to get the premium ice cream.
Despite the intimidating mountains surrounding it, Kazbegi did not make much of a first impression. There was a little square with a statue and several outdoor kiosks, all selling an identical array of salami's, cola's and rough looking bread that would require crocodile teeth to penetrate. A little further down the main drag there was a couple of stores with a meager selection of goods, and no restaurants or café's that I could detect. My guidebook, published five years before my arrival, indicated there was a hotel in town; but I could find no sign of it. The village was dead, but for a collection of farm animals that roamed the streets. I approached the only people I could find, three men sitting in a beat-up old sedan.
"Hotel Kazbegi?" I tentatively offered up with a shrug of my shoulders.
"No, No," they all muttered as they shook their heads.
"No?"
They began to extend their hands out like an umpire calling a runner safe, indicating that there was no more Hotel Kazbegi.
"Other hotel, any HOTEL," I said as it began to rain harder.
"No hotel, house, me, come," said an unshaven man named Georgi with black greasy hair who was in the drivers seat.
"OK, your house it is," I said, as the other two men got out and began walking the other way.
"You-Amer-ee-can?"
"Yes."
"Look Ameri-kin moozic," he said, popping in a Bryan Adams cassette, which blared Heaven at an ear- shattering volume. "I'm findin' it hard to believe we're in heaven…."
"You like, American moozic?" he asked reminding me of the Elvis Costello song. (We like all kinds of moozic )
"Actually, Bryan Adams is Canadian," I said, desperate to try to disown one of North America's cheesiest recording stars, whose insidiously catchy melodies had apparently penetrated even this little village deep in the Caucasus mountains.
"American," he said insistently as he held up the tape case for my inspection.
I let it drop as he was in charge of the situation, and luckily we arrived at his home in less than a minute. Kazbegi was a small place.
Georgi did not get out of the car, but instead shouted out to his wife in Georgian, and presumably told her that I'd be staying with them. We agreed on a price of $5 for the evening and I was left with his wife Nonna and two young sons- Gogga and Ruslan.
Georgi's family's home as well as several others in the village, had a little de-facto shop in the front entranceway that had a few items for sale, such as detergent and chocolate bars. Nonna had a thick mane of curly black hair and a pretty dimpled smile; I took her to be in her early thirties. Although she didn’t speak English, she did her best to show warmth and generosity, bringing me tea and an old coffee table book entitled, "Soviet Georgia, 1921-1981". The tattered old tome was filled with photos of smiling factory workers and amusing Soviet takes on Georgian history. "Toward the 18th century when Georgia was under threat of genocide, Russia was there to stave off the danger!" The book also made mention of the legendary tradition of Georgian hospitality, "We can inevitably conclude that history itself has taught the people which suffered much cruelty and ruthlessness to appreciate every sign of friendship and be ready to lend a helping hand."
The rain continued to pour down outside so I resigned myself to spending an afternoon at their home, but what to do? I hadn't been shown to a bedroom so I couldn't very well pull out a book and start reading- the living room was too dark and I saw no lights anywhere. I felt trapped until Gogga's young cousin came over and the three of us began playing a spirited game of keep-away for a good hour. After we'd tired ourselves, I sat down with Nonna to look at some of their family photos and was given a pair of slippers to wear. Nonna showed me one photo of their wedding day in which I could clearly see little Gogga present in the background. I wondered if she was forced to marry Georgi, after all he was not the most handsome or charming individual. Essad Bey's, The Twelve Secrets of the Caucasus, published in 1930, gives us some insight into Caucasian wedding rituals, specifically the kalym or dowry paid to the bride's family.
"The height of the prices has always varied in direct proportion
to the wealth of the man and the beauty of the woman… Girls were divided into several groups: ugly, average, beautiful, very beautiful, and exceptionally beautiful, and also into virgin, semi-virgin, and no longer virgin. The classification of a girl is decided upon by a committee of experts and endorsed by the authorities. The price varies from (the equivalent of) one hundred twenty five dollars to five hundred dollars for virgins to a few cents, nominal charge for those no longer virgins. The lowest price for a virgin is $125…everything above that is considered an extra bonus for beauty. Payment by installations has always been permitted."
Just as I pondered what kind of payment plan Georgi negotiated to marry Nonna, the man barged in. He stood, swaying underneath an archway leading to the living room with glassy, unfocused eyes that strained to recognize my form and face. Georgi was piss drunk and I was a strange man in his home. He came closer and began shouting something at me as Nonna let out an embarrassed laugh. Why the hell was he angry at me? Georgi approached me shouting, stopped about a centimeter from my face and, looked down at the slippers Nonna had given me. Did I have his slippers on? Had I been sitting too close to his wife? He was looking at me and shouting as though he didn't remember picking me up.
"Georgi!" I said loudly as I stood up hoping to remind him of who I was.
He got right up in my face again though and began barking at me, making points with a hard finger into my chest for emphasis. He had obviously drank away the five dollars I had paid him.
"Bryan Adams, remember, no Hotel Kazbegi!" I said, hoping against hope that I wouldn't have to start singing Heaven to jar his memory.
But he seemed to either not remember or not care to as he continued on in an incoherent diatribe. Nonna began to yell back at him, clearly embarrassed but not surprised by his inebriation.
"I'm going for a walk," I announced, hoping that by the time I returned Georgi would either have calmed down or passed out.
It was still raining hard outside and there was nowhere to go. Mind you, I wasn't holding out for a Barnes & Noble superstore to kill time in, but anyplace, a store, a restaurant, a museum, a market, any shelter would do. But there was nothing to do and no one out on the rainy streets. I thought I would amuse myself by shopping for some dinner but all I could find was a stick of some pinkish looking meat, which could have been baloney. I thought about leaving town, but the only minibus out was the one I came in on, and it didn't leave until 4:00 pm the next day. I realized that at least for this one night my fate was intertwined with Nonna and Georgi. There was no escaping them or their little world I'd dropped in on. Bracing myself for another unpleasant confrontation, I walked slowly back towards their small home.
Back at the house Georgi made too strong an attempt at reconciliation.
"Dah-veed come here moozic," he yelled, beckoning for me to come into the TV room to watch, of all things, American gangsta rap videos with him.
"Ah-mare-ee kun moozik goood," he howled as I tried to ignore him.
"Good?" he persisted.
"Yes, American music is good," I said feeling like a schoolboy repeating his lessons.
The whole family stared intently at the screen, which was filled with images of young bejeweled black men surrounded by scantily clad buxom blondes.
"Dah-veed ah-mare-ee kin garells good?"
At first I did not understand him but then he got up, went over to the TV and pointed at the chest of a young girl on the screen to help drive home his point.
"Yes, I like American girls too," Christ get me out of here. I began to walk outside when Georgi, having caught sight of my camera, insisted on dragging his boys outside in the rainstorm for a photo-op. Nonna tried to dissuade him but he pushed her off and insisted I take a shot of him and his boys in the driving rain. He did not take the cigarette out of his mouth for the portrait. Mercifully, Nonna called us into a drafty, dark, little outhouse in the back, which served as their kitchen and dining room.
Georgi began to devour his chicken and potato dinner without benefit of any cutlery or napkin, only occasionally looking up from his meal to pound his fist on the table and make some arcane proclamation. I tried to break the tension in the room by pointing to the boys and indicating what good boys they were.
"Him GOOOD," he said grabbing Ruslans’ head with his greasy paw.
"Him, AAAAghghh," he said, and made a gesture meant to indicate that Gogga was a wimp. Meanwhile little Gogga was sitting right there, obviously not challenging his Neanderthal father.
"GEORGI!" shouted Nonna, obviously disgusted with him. Nonna berated him for a moment until he half jumped up from the table and raised his hand in the air as though he was going to strike her. No one said a word or could bear to look at one another for an excruciatingly long moment. Georgi was trembling as a piece of food fell out of his mouth. I decided that if he hit her, I was going to hit him and it would be an ugly evening in Kazbegi town. Luckily though, he soon left the table where he no doubt passed out in a puddle of his own piss and vomit.
After dinner, Nonna's brother, who surprisingly spoke a little English dropped by. He seemed to revel in the opportunity to talk to an American while Nonna busied herself with the dishes.
"You see Georgi likes to drink, you must ignore him, he is young, he will learn."
"Young? How old is he?" I asked.
"He is 25 and Nonna is only 24."
I was speechless; they were both younger than I was. I had thought they were both much older.
"They were very young when they were married, my sister was only 17."
The look on his face seemed to say, "how could she know what a drunken asshole he'd turnout to be," but it wasn't necessary for him to say it. After Nonna finished washing the dishes she insisted on having me sleep in their "master" bedroom as the whole rest of the family- including the passed out Georgi- slept in one double bed in the front room. No matter how much of a barbarian her husband may have been, they were not about to violate the tradition of Georgian hospitality.
¨¨¨ ¨¨¨
The next morning the sun came out, and Georgi was blessedly nowhere to be found, so I took the opportunity to spend several hours hiking all around the environs of the little town. The natural beauty and the warmth of the sun restored my desire to travel, and I even contemplated staying another night with Nonna and Georgi but soon thought better of it, and returned to say goodbye with some meager gifts for the kids in hand. Nonna seemed disappointed that I was leaving, and I felt bad leaving her too, but that's what happens when you travel to countries like Georgia and stay in people's homes- you become exposed to problems that you cannot begin to solve and the weight of those problems makes your trip seem frivolous and almost perverse. I quit my job in Chicago a few months before and left my girlfriend behind to travel for several months along the Silk Road. It wasn’t a holidaymaker or a businessman, and I knew no one in Georgia prior to my arrival. I was from one of the richest nations on earth, yet I looked a bit rough around the edges and I was staying with a poor family in an obscure village. I left home wanting to visit places like Georgia in the spirit of curiosity and adventure, but there were times when the question of why am I here became almost unbearable to examine.
Before leaving, I slipped Nonna some more American cash, which she accepted without ceremony. My gesture felt inadequate and awkward, but I had nothing else to offer. I sat waiting in the town square for my bus, watching a drunken old man hassle the kiosk owners for some beer. Someone finally gave the old man some change which he tried to parlay into a purchase, yet none of the kiosks would sell to him. I wondered if this form of community policing could be put to work on Georgi. On cue, he came into view walking towards his home. Briefly, I indulged in a fantasy about jumping him from behind, beating him senseless and taking his family back to Tbilisi with me. In the end, I merely contented myself in the knowledge that he would not be able to drink away the cash I'd given Nonna the way he had the five from the day before.
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