A Georgian fling
Where Orthodox is God, and Capitalism is King.
Around 2 a.m., as we approached the Turkish border from Iran, our driver pulled into a petrol station and filled up large plastic containers with gallons of petrol. He stashed them under the bus giving a fragrance that wafted through the coach. The border on the Eastern most province of Turkey was small, inefficient and out of date. Our kind Iranian travel companions shuffled us through unexplained queues and stood guard for an hour while the Iranian border control struggled to read the chips in our passports. They waited to make sure that our characteristically impatient bus driver didn’t leave us at the border. Not far down the road on the Turkish side, our driver pulled over again and in the final dark moments just before sunrise, handed over the petrol-filled containers to a group of men waiting on the roadside. Some kind of racket selling cheap petrol over the border.
The sun was rising as we drove through Eastern Turkey destined for Tbilisi, Georgia. It was a completely different land — green pastures with shepherds herding their flocks across fields with no fences. Tiny villages were dotted at random throughout the landscape where women in heavy traditional clothing sat on doorsteps beating washing or kneading dough. When we stopped for breakfast, I noticed that all the Iranian women on the bus except for one family had removed their headscarves. In the late afternoon, after another arduous border crossing into Georgia (this time confiscating any form of pharmaceutical, including panadol and nurofen) we pulled into a petrol station canteen with novelty whiskey bottles and Dire Straits playing on the radio. The air with which people carried themselves had entirely shifted. Some of the men were having a beer and after the meal they requested that the music up be turned up. The men danced and the women clapped. It felt like a celebration.
Tbilisi, the Georgian capital, holds the character of a European city that has found itself in a foreign land. Elaborate stone buildings sit stately along cobblestone streets with grand green parks parading fountains like birds in the mating season. It felt like walking into the 1950s Europe of my imagination. Old Don-like men in brown linen puffing on cigars escort beautifully dressed women in pant suits gracefully holding thin cigarillos. Billboards flaunt the benefits of smoking. There’s jazz in the bars opposite the velvet-lined and chandelier-filled Opera House. Children play piano recitals in plush concert halls, light blue with baroque-style cherubs on the wall. Young hipsters crowd into small retro-inspired bars and sit on pallet-furniture while bearded men wearing double denim with skull patches play a cover of Hey Jude. Well-dressed socialites pull up to the drive-through flower market en route to the local marionette theatre. The play tells a tale about a time when Georgian Kings yearned to be considered part of Europe but the Europeans considered them insignificant.
Separated from Europe by the Black Sea, with Russia to its North and Turkey to its West, and blighted by decades of Soviet rule there is an underlying gruffness in both the people and the feel of the city that stems from hardship. Taxi drivers roll around in old Mercedes with a distaste for all customers. They ruthlessly overcharge and then piously cross themselves whenever the Cathedral comes into view. Old men of few words carry an air of contempt that if cracked can be broken for a brief moment with a warm smile. The lived experiences of wars, and communism, and capitalism sat heavily within the wrinkles on their faces.
In the Taverns there is a charming disregard for the customer, where you have to work to get served and protest to receive your change. In a corner booth it is common to find a hustle of men drinking liquor by the litre, becoming more gregarious as the shots mount up. A heightened nationalism means that the wine you drink will always be Georgian and most often homemade. Drinking is of such central importance that even Mother Georgia, who stands 20 metres tall over looking Tbilisi, holds a bowl of wine in her left hand to greet her friends and a sword in her right to greet her enemies. Wine can be purchased by the bottle or in a five litre plastic container. The alternative is Cha Cha, a fiery white spirit made from grape skins which often reaches as high as 60% alcohol. People drink shots of it at any opportunity, often at the wine shop while deciding which bottle of wine to take home.
The local flea market is filled with an entirely random assortment of wares. Locals park up their cars or lay down their mats and sell everything from chandeliers and candelabras to miniature portable TVs, spark plugs and wrenches, jewellery, musical instruments and brass objects from the Soviet era. There are things there that technology has made completely defunct. It is impossible to imagine a living could be made from the sale of these items. But they arrive everyday and immaculately line up their wares waiting for the first hustle of the day.
The Holy Trinity Cathedral sits prominently up on the mountainside above the river. During the day it reflects the sun turning the stone golden and the roof sparkles across the old city. People piously cross themselves whenever it comes into view, even if their actions at the time sit in stark contrast to the values of their faith. I walked up the large stone staircase in awe of this architectural masterpiece just as one of the priests was opening the grand wooden double doors of the main entranceway. The sound that came out hit me with force. I passed through the doors and entered into the enormous belly of the cathedral where three men were singing. The sound of their voices and the intricate harmonies they wove filled the space in its entirety. I felt like I was floating in sound. I could feel it vibrate through my being sensing the spirituality that people seek in these places, aware that these three men were creating with their song a way for others to be transported to a place of peace and hope and beauty.
As always in a city, it was the people that really made Tbilisi magical. We stayed with Lasha and Guranda, the dedicated parents to three kids — Nicolas, Elizabet and Sofia. They had converted a part of their house into an airbnb. From the very first night we became good friends as we sat on ammunition boxes around a tree trunk table drinking homemade Georgian wine. We laughed as they spoke the strangest sounding Georgian words — the most uniquely different language I have ever heard. Lasha was full of charisma, which was usually dedicated towards his children in the form of love and play, although could also be directed towards the national sport, drinking. We spent a night with him at an Irish Pub watching Russian tourists do painfully bad karaoke versions of Russian pop songs. His enthusiasm pushed us late into the morning despite our early bus the next day. Guranda worked with people with disabilities. She wore jeans ripped at the knee. She was quick to laugh, and gracefully generous. Their life was committed to bringing joy to their children. We found them one afternoon surrounded by a gaggle of tiny humans as they created giant bubbles in the park.
Coming to Tbilisi had been the result of a moment of indecision. The question of ‘where to next’ is common when moving with an open travel plan. Five days barely scraped the surface of beginning to really experience what it means to be Georgian. The combination of a deep commitment to God mixed with a love of all things at odds with piety, endeared itself to me. The common gruff, slightly hardened character with a soft heart was always a rewarding challenge to crack. Outside the city, the remote villages, majestic mountains and waterways that we passed held the promise that Georgia is a land of many great adventures.
Writing and photographs by Hannah Mackintosh. More stories can be found here: https://medium.com/for-all-i-see
