Kutaisoba

Kutaisi is the second largest city in Georgia, located roughly halfway between Georgia’s two more widely known cities, Tbilisi and Batumi. I lived in Kutaisi for a few months as an English teacher a few years ago.

The second of May is the annual Kutaisi day celebration, or Kutaisoba. My cell phone rang in the early afternoon and I picked it up. It was Lugash, one of my former adult students from my class of school security guards. A few weeks before he had pulled me aside after class to offer to buy me a few beers. He then had proceeded to tell me that he had fought against the Russians in the 2008 war and had trained with special forces in the United States. He was an interesting character. Whenever he spoke to me he would fix me with a hard, unrelenting gaze.

He was screaming into the phone and I thought that there must be something wrong.

Steven, where are you?! Come to the center, when will you be here? Take a taxi, I will pay, I will pay!!

So I got in a cab and called Lugash to figure out where in the center I should go. I had him talk to the cab driver. I had no idea what was going on. I wondered sort of emergency could be going on, and how I could possibly be of any assistance. There was a lot of traffic and it was difficult to get into the center, but eventually I saw Lugash walking towards the taxi. I got out.

Steven. Now we drink beer! No questions, no answers! You understand! Yes. You understand me! No answers! He wrapped his arm around me and guided me to the local brewery. He’d clearly been drinking all day, but perhaps beer would sober him up a bit. He kept repeating himself: if I had any problems, day or night, I was to call him. He would take care of it. Then he would point his index finger at his temple or drag his thumb across his throat. There are many bad peoples. You call me. Anytime. You understand me! Yes I understand Lugash. We are friends. Your problems are my problems. Yes. Thank you Lugash.

I kill many Russians! I hate Russians! Because you and I (points to head) we have. Is good. But Russians have not. (Fist bangs on the table.) Russians have not. Many pigs in Russia. You understand? Yes, I understand.

Other conversation topics were parents and siblings. He had no siblings, and he had had to bury his parents. I told him that we were brothers. He looked like he was about to cry. He proposed a toast, that my family was his family, and likewise, his family was my family, and I was welcome in his home anytime.

No matter how long the conversation may have been about something else, however, it always wound itself back to wars with the Russians and how he hated them and killed them. It was difficult to follow the conversation in much detail, but I got the gist of it. I kept assuring him that I understood. He told me that if he started to talk about the war, I should stop him because we would only talk of good times. I tried this once or twice, which he was thankful for. But then he started talking of the war again, explaining that he could not talk of other things.

As we were in a brewery drinking beer, I eventually needed to use the toilet. He stood up to go with me and escorted me up the stairs, glancing about wildly. I walked to the urinal, but no, he motioned for me to go into one of the stalls. I went in one, he in another. I left and he left his the same time I did. He kept watch as I washed my hands, and after opening the door and seeing it was all clear, guided me back to our table. Many bad peoples, I figured, must have been running through his head.

More talk of war. He was chain smoking. Well, not really smoking, just lighting cigarettes and letting them burn all the way down in his fingers while talking to me about killing Russians. He told me that in the wars he couldn’t smoke, because the Russians would see the glow of the cigarettes and shoot him.

He showed me a few pictures on his phone. He, his son and wife all sitting in the Gori hospital after he was injured in 2008. He recounted the different wars he was in. I counted five prior to the 2008 invasion. But Steven. You understand that I cannot talk to you about THAT. I cannot say. It is government. We cannot talk. Yes of course. He told me that now it was good in Georgia. And it was good that I was there. Stay with us in Georgia. I have many informations. There would be another war with Russia in two years, and Georgia would have victory.

Eventually came the inevitable toast to god. He wondered if I was Catholic. For the sake of ease, I did not say that I was an atheist but told him that I was Protestant. We toasted to god. Then he asked if it was good to kill for god. I’m not sure what he meant, as righteous justification for the act or whether there was forgiveness for killing, so I didn’t quite know how to respond and just said that I didn’t know. He was in great distress, biting his fingernails, questioning me nervously and excitedly. So I made a toast for him, my friend, and a good man. No. I am a bad man. Very bad, bad man! I insisted. No, you are a good man. This went on for some time.

Eyes blazing, he questioned me. Steven. You think I am a good man? You think I am normal? You think I am normal?! Not mad? To which I responded yes, yes, you are normal. Thank you Steven, thank you for today.

I began to realize that he was exceptionally drunk, increasingly agitated and nervous, and making less and less sense. I wanted to go home. I finally convinced him to leave, and we went wandering into the night. He walked with me Georgian style, that is, the way that men walk arm in arm or arm over shoulder, a walking embrace. In many ways Georgia is like one big celebration of men congratulating each other on being men. The streets were packed. There had been live music at a stage on the main roundabout in the city center, and it was a pity that I had been stuck inside at the brewery during the whole show. It would have been nice to have witnessed some excitement in Kutaisi for a change.

Lugash still wanted to go to see the concert, despite the fact that it had already ended. Along the way to the cleared stage, he bought me some cotton candy. We wandered about, arm in arm in a maze through the park for a few minutes, as I munched on my cotton candy. I decided that I should try to wind the evening to a close and head for the marshrutka (minibus) station. The longer the this continued, the further it would spiral into madness, and I wasn’t sure how far down the rabbit hole I was prepared to go. I was wandering around on Kutaisoba, with a tanked, Special Ops Georgian suffering from PTSD who had just bought me cotton candy, and would “take care of” any of the many bad peoples I might have problems with.

Along the way to the marshrutkas, still arm in arm, we stumbled into a few young people wandering happily through the park, also winding down their Kutaisoba celebrations. This upset Lavash, who quickly flashed his Special Ops military card, and got into a drunken argument with the unsuspecting Kutaisoba celebrators. After a few words, probably to make sure that they weren’t some of the very bad peoples, we made our way peacefully towards the marshrutkas, and to my disappointment, mine was not there yet and we had to wait.

Many people were still hanging about, so Lugash motioned for me to get off the street, and head into the small dark grove of trees off to the side. He pointed to a tree for me to hide behind, and he went to a dark corner to urinate. He then sneaked behind a different tree, and looked to me, put his finger to his lips, and then to his eyes. All of this was making less and less sense. But then I saw the number 11! I stepped out from my hiding place behind the tree and told Lugash that I had to leave. He instructed me to call him as soon as I got back to the dormitory. He called me three times along the way to make sure I was okay.