The other side of the border is, predictably, frequented by taxi drivers. For a few pieces of shrapnel one of them takes me to the nearest bus station. The only bus running goes to Tbilisi, the capital city. I hop on, and for the next two hours the bus winds along various lanes as if following the route of a meandering river.
When I arrive in Tbilisi I feel exhausted, which is a little perplexing considering I have been sat on my backside for half of the day. Despite being the capital city, as I walk around it feels more like lots of small towns glued together. In one of the areas on the east side of the Mtkvari River I find a homestay ran by a 72 year-old Georgian woman called Dodo.
For the next five nights this is my home, as I wait for ferry tickets to become available to cross the Black Sea. In this time I become part of the furniture and treated like one of the family. Dodo’s nieces, especially, give up their time to show me around the city, becoming my unofficial tour guides. My timing in Tbilisi coincides both with protests against the incumbent President, and celebrations of the 20th anniversary of Georgian independence. Thus, in one part of town there is a demonstration, with political speeches being made to the thousands of people taking part. Meanwhile, in the old part of town, families are dancing and having their faces painted.
Away from the demonstrations and celebrations, Dodo insists that I must take a sulphur bath. The spa facilities have existed in Georgia for centuries, although the current ones are reliant upon modern technology and drainage systems for heat and water. “Public or private?” the receptionist asks. I choose the much cheaper public baths. For some reason in my mind I am imagining a spacious, warm swimming pool. The reality is much different. I am taken to a room filled with naked men wearing shoes, toing and froing from the massage table to the showers to the sauna to the sulphur bath. I strip off and join in the experience.
As to be expected in a situation like this, it is difficult to know where to look. Staring too much at head height entangles me in conversations in Georgian or Russian, neither of which I speak well, and sign language whilst naked just looks strange. But not staring at peoples faces means looking at other parts - no need to digress. An alternative is to shut my eyes, but doing so whilst naked in public brings on a feeling of immeasurable vulnerability. In the end I do what seems the best course of action - stop being a wimp and get on with it. Life is too short.
My final experience in Tbilisi is a Georgian ‘supra’ (feast). I had been invited by a family I had met when I got lost on the Georgian subway (the maps and directions are all written in the Georgian script, which is like nothing else in the World). They told me that the next day would be the 21st birthday party of Kate, the daughter who spoke English well, and that I must come along. They had been so enthusiastic that I must join them for the celebration, that I found it impossible to refuse. Especially when Kate looked me in the eyes and said she would be disappointed if I did not make it.
I arrive, thinking there will just be a few family members, or perhaps a few of her friends giggling and gossiping. Instead, as I walk through the door, there are about thirty people sat in silence, gazing at me. “This is my family and friends” Kate says. They have all been waiting for my arrival. She asks if I would like to know all their names, and I say of course. Each person takes it in turn to shake my hand and say their name.
“You have remembered all the names yes?”
“Yes of course, she is Tomi and he is Kate” I joke. For some reason this terrible gag goes down brilliantly, and they say “Cargot” and we all walk into the dining room.
I have read a few things before about these Georgian feasts, but nothing can prepare one for the real thing.
“The men are standing - you must stand!” he says to me firmly. We all hold glasses of Georgian wine, take it in turn to say a few words, then neck it and sit down. Throughout the next few hours we repeat this procedure countless times; it is a battle of wits, patience and stamina. There are toasts to the birthday girl, to the immediate family, to diseased ancestors, to me and my journey. Then there are toasts to God, and things almost get sticky.
When they ask me what my religion is, I have no idea what to reply. This would not be a convenient time to explain my lack of belief, so I say Christian. But they pin me down and ask which sect. I do not want to risk pledging allegiance to the Pope, yet I am also unsure how it would go down if I committed myself to Luther. And if I say that I am Georgian Orthodox like them, it would so obviously be contrived. Thus, idiotically, I opt for “Oh, I’m errr… English Orthodox.” This, of course, does not exist. They look at me very confused, then say “Catholic or Protestant?” “Ermmmm…sort of but not quite Protestant?” Thankfully this is sufficient, and the toast in made, and the conversation smoothly rolls on to Georgian literature, followed by a toast to Kate’s parents.
When the feast has finished those in their early twenties keenly put on the latest Western chart toppers and dance enthusiastically. But there is no emotion, no depth to the songs, except for the fact they are in fashion at the moment - there is no way they will be played next year. Thus, the songs which provoke the strongest reaction and are played for the rest of the night are the beautiful old songs which have stood the test of time and get everyone joining in. At one point Kate’s mother gets on the piano.
I say farewell to Tbilisi and take a minibus to Gori. For some this town is synonymous with Joseph Stalin, it being his birthplace. I pop into an eatery ran by some Georgians women all dressed in black. After much communication, mainly by naïve sign language rather than verbal conversation, I mention Stalin, and one of the ladies leaves and comes back with a dusty wooden tablet from 1979 commemorating the hundredth anniversary of Stalin’s birth.
