Religous Leaders

Today at the Public Defender's Office there was a gathering of several religious leaders within Georgia with the purpose of discussing their involvement in social programs in Georgia. Here are some pictures of the event.

Lela, who I work with at ICCN, addresses the group

Public Defender Representatives who moderated the meeting
Baptist Pastor and President Merab (left) and the Armenian representative (right)
The press conference
The Armenian representative

Another Funeral

So now I'm going to an ex-President's funeral service. He died a number of years ago and has been buried in numerous places, the most recent being Chechnya. He has been transferred from Chechnya to Georgia and will be buried here some place. More on that soon.

The Chronicles of Substance

This is from Ghost Writer (who has since changed its identity from Guest Writer)

I was thrilled with the idea, but would not dare take any of it. He was bored and this made him happy. Well, at least the first time. Afterwards it was not the same. He took it and it did not make him happy. He had power, or so thought, in his world. Of course, this world is fantastic, certainly not like anything we know, and certainly not real in any kind of concrete way. You can leap from cloud to cloud and nothing really matters and nothing is really wrong because you are happy. You are happy for a few hours. Then sometimes you are scared. There is no particular threat that would realize itself, that would materialize. So being scared is fun. It is a thrill.

He is often angry now. He argues, when he is in an acceptable or somewhat coherent state, against the immorality of others. The injustices that others are doing and how it is so wrong. But what about him?

So, he does not reflect about himself anymore. At least not openly. He points at others. [That is an easy thing to do. We all do it. We point to someone or something else in order to justify ourselves, our situation, our problems. This something or someone else may not even be guilty of anything. The other could be innocent of our judgments against him or her. But, it does not matter if the other is guilty or innocent, as long as we all agree who should be punished, or at least, who is at fault. The substitute victim.] I agree with him. They certainly are guilty, those others. But what are we doing? Oh, that’s right, nothing.

As I said, he is angry now. But now you cannot see his anger. He seems actually quite patient. Then again, I am not sure if he is entirely coherent. It is a capricious thing. He must bottle it up inside somewhere. Maybe he puts them in contained illuminated containers where they stay nice and warm, and where they can grow. But get rid of that, please.

It does not matter what I do, he says. But then, it does, I say. You are part of a community. Community does not mean much anymore though. It can in some cases, but it sounds nothing like family anymore. “What I do only affects me,” he says. But, my understanding is that almost anything you do does in fact affect others you are with or a part of.

So everyone hates him now. Well, maybe people don’t hate him, but they dislike him. They have ‘written him off,’ per se. They say he is a moral failure. He is a sinner. He is a waste of life and breath. But, listen to yourself, I say. You are judging him with such hard words, such nasty words. You are taking the value out of him. He is my friend. He is valuable. “Why is he your friend?” you might ask, “he’s such a bad influence.” He is my friend because our friendship is not based on moral performance. We have our arguments and disagreements, but he’s my friend. Jesus is not your friend because you are good. He does not befriend you based on your moral performance. If he were to do that, Jesus wouldn’t have any friends, except for the Father and the Holy Ghost.

THE [abrupt] END

Women's Prison

The week in prisons. Today I'm going to another prison, the women's prison here in Tbilisi. This week of the lent season, in the Baptist Church, has been dedicated to prisoners.

For those who I have not told yet. I'm finally taking 'official' Georgian lessons. I was originally just interacting with single words and phrases that I picked up from conversation. Now, I'm learning coherent speech... to some degree at least.

I may post a really out-of-place story in the next post, so enjoy.

peace

Maximum Security Prison

Kutaisi Prison

On Monday I went to the Maximum Security Prison in Kutaisi, Georgia. I did not go to prison for committing a crime this time, I went to visit three prisoners: Simon, Vladimir and Alexander. I left Tbilisi in the early morning with Bishop Malkhaz, Lela Q, Beka, Gela, and several others. We arrived at the prison and passed security without much problem. We first visited with the prison Director to tell him why it is that we came.

Three prisoners expressed their desire to be baptized. The Baptist Church has been in touch with one prisoner for some time, and over time two more became interested in learning more about what it means to be a follower of Christ.

After speaking with the Director of the prison we were led to another larger room. It was a nice room, with fake-wood floors, papaya-colored walls, and spacious. After several minutes the three prisoners walked in. They had black baggy prison outfits on, with white stripes around their sleeves. They took small hurried steps around the room. We greeted each other and talked for sometime.

Then, we all sat down and the three men began asking questions to the Bishop, questions they had about things they were reading and experiencing in the prison. Another man who accompanied the group from Tbilisi, Beka, also shared some wisdom. Beka works for the Public Defender's office, heads up the Tolerance Institute, and studied Theology at the Orthodox Seminary.

The prison guards were in the room as well, listening to the discussion.

Bishop Malkhaz led the liturgy and baptized the three men. It was a wonderful moment. The floor of the room became very wet as the water dripped from the men's heads. The candles we lit sapped the floor with melted and then dried wax.

We finished our time with quite vivid conversations not only with the three men but also with the prison guards.

The LADA Project: A Week in Ladas

Lada carrying a lotta hay

Stalin's Lada
Lotta Machinery
Lotta refueling
Lada twins?

A Hike

And so the hike began, up a mountain with strong winds and snow against us. I personally did not expect there to be any snow on this hike, but fortunately for me, I did in fact bring some proper shoes, as opposed to my Crocs.

Continuing our trek as the winds picked up and the snow slowly disappeared. When the wind moved the clouds, if only for a short time, one could see the northern caucasus mountains.
The snow stopped and so did we, to rest and talk.
As the second snow storm began showing its fury, we quickened our steps.
Soon it was upon us, there was no escape.
In seconds, the ground was covered in snow (as well as my camera).

Finding the path we took over the moutains as we stand in a field.

Resting on the ruins on a small mountain before finishing our trek.

Arranging for pickup.

Cave City

USHBA

This is Ushba

Climb a Mountain

USHBA 2: The Supra

The Supra is the most special and important meal one can attend in Georgia. It’s not just a meal, but a time for open prayer, led by the Tamada (Toastmaster). In many ways, it reflects Georgian life and culture.

There are three important elements in the Supra: the Tamada, the wine and food, and the people. It’s very relational. The Tamada leads the toasts, which are prayers. The wine can be drunk not after the main toast, but after you have built onto the main toast with words of your own. You need to expand on the theme of the toast. Food is eaten in between the toasts. The people, as I mentioned already, build on the toasts and usually give toasts/prayers to each other.

There are specific toasts that are compulsory to make, they come at the beginning of the toasting, and the order varies, depending on where you are in Georgia. Since I’m in Svaneti, I’ll give the order I observed.

The first toast is to the “Big God”—in other words, the Trinity. The second toast is to St Mary. And the third toast is to St George.

One is usually expected to drink the entire glass in one take, Bolomde. No second sips. Once you’ve taken a sip, and you’ve taken the glass away from your mouth, you cannot take another sip. Also, you must always toast with your right hand. You may not drink until you have added something to the main toast, or until the person to your left has taken a sip. In my experience, except for one instance, the Tamadas have always been men. Also, women generally (no, always) prepare the food and set the table, and sit around the table, but not at the table.

Typically after the three main toasts, another important toast follows—a toast to the dead. This toast was specifically relevant to this Supra, because the husband of the woman who owns the house died recently (of drunk driving. After attending three Supras in one day, his hosts allowed him to drive away, driving his truck off a cliff).

The next important toast is to children. When I added to the main toast I said, “May we all learn to be like children, for that is the only way we’ll enter the kingdom of God.”

The next toast goes to the region one is in, in this case Svaneti. This toast reminds everyone of the beauty of the region, the history and the culture. It is a remembrance of one’s roots.

After this last toast, the Tamada is pretty free to toast to anything he or she pleases. The Tamada can even allow someone else to give a toast. I tried to do that, but was rejected. Then I was allowed to give the last toast.

The wine is usually wine from the region, but not necessarily. In Svaneti it is sometimes hard to grow grapes because of the altitude. The wine is usually red wine. The food is usually delicious, what can I say? There is usually a choice of meat, in my case if was sacrificed calf. There is also some sort of vegetable like tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, pickles, potatoes (even though those may not all be vegetables, the tomatoes being a fruit, and carrots and potatoes being tubers). The food, as I said before, is prepared by the women. They work hard at getting everything on the table: cheesebread, meat pies, calf stomach-heart-liver et al, pepper salad, Svan bread, Svan salt, nut sauce, berry sauce, and more.

If there are enough men to fill the table, or at least enough to take up half of the table, then the women sit not at the table, but on the other seats or couches away from the table.

THE END

USHBA 3: The Funeral

When I arrived, I was immediately recognized as a foreigner. I had sunglasses on too, which was a mistake. A fellow came to the car to say hello to the family patriarch and me, the guest. He refrained from greeting me and in turn put a pair of his own sunglasses on and looked back at me as if to give the impression that he was not my friend, and he’ll be watching me. I felt bad. I instantly took my glasses off. I was new in the village, the sun was beating down and snow was everywhere. I needed the sunglasses. But I took them off. I didn’t want to create barrier between me and the people, being a foreigner as a barrier large enough.

We walked down the road to the Aunt’s house after we had parked the Niva. The road was muddy and was like a river. It was slippery and Teimuraz slipped [but did not fall] and said a bad word in English. It was the first English word I had heard him say. I laughed, and then asked him how to say it in Georgian. But I forgot it now.

We then entered the property and were instantly greeted. Many expressed their condolences to Teimuraz, who initially seemed not affected by the death of his uncle Igor. We greeted many people. I greeted as many as possible and shook as many hands as possible, trying to make as many friends as possible—as opposed to enemies and subjects who many want to kidnap me. Soon, Teimuraz stopped introducing me to people, I felt a little out of place because I did not know where I was supposed to stand. I patiently started making eye contact with everyone around me, nodding me head, so as not to look like a complete fool. I was being stared out by many people though. Then, I found a comfortable place by the wall. Teimuraz then told a young man, about my age, in charge of protecting me. I call him Pharaoh. We tried talking for quite some time. We walked around and met even more people, that was easier. I know a few things, like “Hello, how are you? I am well.” Then I can move on to the next person and say the exact same thing and feel like I know how to speak Georgian.

We both (at least I did) knew that the young women who were preparing the tables for the feast were watching us and whispering to each other. One girl turned another girl around inconspicuously in order to have a look at Pharaoh and me. Pharaoh and I walked toward the coalition of women. I thought we were going to sit and talk, but we kept going and found some other men standing at the end of the row of tables.

One claimed to know German, but everything he said sounded like Russian to me. So another fellow came, he looked pretty clever and cunning and said to me, “Wie heisst du?” I responded, “Gut, danke, und du?” He looked confused, as if he didn’t hear me. Then he asked again, “Wie heisst du?” I responded the same. Then he immediately said something that sounded like a joke to the other Svans in Svan about how I didn’t know German. Then I realized what was happening and said, “Dangit!” in my head. I blurted out, “Ich heisse Peter, oder Petre.” Then I followed up by saying, “Und wie heisst du?” and he said, “Temuri.” I said, “Sprechst du Deutsch?” “Niet,” he said.

Then my good friend Dato, perhaps trying to make things less awkward said that we should go see the tower, which was just a house away.

On the way there we met two drunk fellows who had been sitting in a booth drinking Araqi and waiting to be invited to the funeral feast. They greeted Dato. We talked for a while. Dato managed to get a cigarette and then jumped off the rock he was standing on and pointed to the tower and said—Dadeshkeliani Tower. It is an extremely tall tower. Many in the town boast that it is the tallest one. The tower was so tall that I had to walk outside the ruined fortress area to get the whole tower in one photo. This is the former ruling family’s tower, hence the name Dadeshkeliani.

The three, Dato, Pharaoh and another fellow, who accompanied me walked back to the feast area. We said hello to several others as we got to the entrance of the property, where several horses were tied up and a big dump truck was parked. One guy who was standing at the entrance of the property, acting like he was guarding or patrolling, had a serious look on his face. He had no intention what so ever to put a friendly look on his face. Then he slipped off the log he was standing on and fell into the muddy road. Everyone laughed, including the fellow who fell. Then Dato made a camera gesture with his hands, telling me to take a picture of the dude who had just fallen. Of course, I did not have the camera ready.

As this happened, a young lady and her mother made their way over to where we were, standing several feet from us, across the small bridge over the stream that went into the property. They were perhaps planning on what to say to me. I do not mean to be egocentric by any means, but it seems to be the tendency that young unmarried women try to marry a foreigner in order to get citizenship in some Western country and get out of Georgia. It has happened to me before, but this is the first time in Svaneti.

Soon the two, mother and daughter, went back to the tables. As soon as this happened Dato indicated that we would enter the property. We started walking down the row of tables where that young woman was sitting. I had surrendered to the idea that I would have to talk myself out the second awkward marriage conversation.

To my surprise, Dato continued walking by without stopping, and I was relieved. The mother muttered something to Dato, and he responded with something in Svan that sounded like, “Don’t mess with my guest.”

We walked up the snow stairs to the next section of tables. Dato sat me down with the only other person who could speak English, or a little bit of English. It was a boring conversation; I enjoyed the Georgian conversations much more. The ‘English speaker’ left the table, “Thank God,” I said to myself.

I sat there minding my own business when the burial procession began. The men’s choir, which has an album which they recorded in France, started singing everyone stood up and began walking behind the open coffin. The close relatives were wailing, weeping, and sobbing, while the choir sang beautiful tunes. The crowd of 300 people started moving as one body. I started walking with everyone else. This would be a perfect time for someone to kidnap me, I thought to myself. I didn’t recognize anyone. (Kidnappings, as perhaps I have mentioned before, are quite common with foreigners in this area). Soon someone grabbed my shoulder, in the spirit of accepting any circumstance that was to come my way, I nonchalantly looked over to see who it was. It was Dato, watching out for me. Everyone was in their Sunday best, walking in the muddy road.

Soon we came upon the grave, which was next to the Dadeshkeliani tower. Someone said a few words, people wailed, one lady even jumped into the grave after the body (for which she was scolded), and then it was finished. It was short. People wanted to get to the feast.

I found a friend after the burial. We talked for a little while, and then I headed back to the feast. I arrived late, and almost all the spots were filled. I found Dato, however, and there was a spot near him. I sat down and the party began.

All these toasts were first to the deceased fellow, and then anything else. Before drinking, one must pour out some of the wine on the ground in honor of the dead man. The man sitting to the left of always poured out his whole glass. I soon followed suit, because I didn’t want to drink. But once I did that, and a fellow across the table wanted to clink glasses with me, and I had no wine (it was all in the snow) and so he disapprovingly took his glass back.

I left the table to take pictures, after eating all the halva on my table. After I got to the balcony, I heard my name being called, “Petre, Petre.” I looked over and in a private room sat the Patriarch, the Pharaoh, the Doctor, and other leaders. They insisted that I join them. They made a toast to me and then I left.

THE END

USHBA 1: Mestia

I rushed to the village center through the muddy roads to catch the bus. The roads were covered with manure from the cows. I trudged through snow as I approached the bus to make sure my boots were clean in order to get on. I am going to Mestia.

To my surprise, yet at the same time it was exactly what I expected, the bus left two hours behind schedule. I got on at the original departure time and got a window seat. While I waited for the bus to leave, I got off the bus and stood on the icy road, looking at all the people, trying to find something unique, and trying to understand the conversations. Unfortunately my Georgian is terrible. Even more unfortunate, I was in Svaneti, and they weren’t even speaking Georgian. They were speaking Svan.

A Niva zoomed by the bus but then slowed to a stop. A man with something flung over his shoulder jumped out of the passenger seat and headed in the direction of the bus, in other words, my way. The strap around his chest was light brown, and something like a black stick stuck out at an angle at his side.

Men were gathered on the opposite side of the street, talking and probably drinking Araqi, the local grain brew. I tried not to make too much eye-contact with anyone in order to avoid any sort of suspicion about anything at all.

The man from the Niva soon crossed the road to where the men were. Some women got into the Niva, and it took off. I saw the thing that was strapped around the Niva man. He carried it much the way I carry my camera, in order to keep it out of sight. It was a Kalashnikov, also known as an AK-47.

My first thought was that he was a paramilitary, perhaps part of Kvirtsiani’s “rebel” group, formerly a Georgian military battalion. (But once this group began making unwarranted raids on Abkhazia, the government stopped their funding. What else was there to do? Well, aside from rising up against the government—which ultimately failed—they have dedicated themselves to criminal activity. In some cases these crimes are robbing, in other cases kidnapping).

So I stood there, wanting to take a picture, just incase I was about to get kidnapped. Other people who were surrounding me noticed that I was slightly preoccupied about this man who carried an AK-47. “He’s a police officer,” someone told me.

[He was not wearing a police outfit, nor did he appear in any way to be a police officer, for reasons that I will not, nor cannot, nor should not say at this time…]

It’s now two hours past 9AM, the time of our tentative departure, and the bus has not left. This is quite normal. I’m in no rush anyway. Don’t hurry, be happy.

Now I recognize some of the men across the street, in the circle. I met a few of them at a funeral earlier this week. I wave my hand and say a silent “Gaumarjos.” Another man I recognize, he’s in his camouflage jacket, with a Svan hat, and a pair of sunglasses. He’s probably in his fifties. He ends up being the bus driver.

Finally we’re on our way. The bus is full. By full, I mean full. This bus is from the 60’s and has the luxury of interior exhaust. It fits 20 people seated. In Georgia though, you can always fit one more. In Svaneti there exists an unwritten rule: If you are driving a vehicle in the same direction as a pedestrian is walking, you must pick the person up.” So we had a packed bus, about forty people, body to body, with fresh exhaust. Did I describe the road yet?

Let me explain. Some parts of the road have snow and ice. No problem. It has been rather warm lately, any where from -1C to 1C. So the snow could be melting melting, and we have packed snow, which can, in many cases, function in the same fashion as ice. Oh, yes, and the tires have not been changed for a number of years. But do not fret, they are winter tires. Really, they are. You wouldn’t know, but they are! The image of an inner tube comes to mind.

The roads loop around, up, and down the mountains, following the Enguri River. Well, at least I think it does. Usually the river is not visible. It lies somewhere in that deep crevice several hundred feet down from the road.

Before you even get to the enormous crevice, where the river flows, you would have to fall off the side of the mountain, which is probably a simple task, but a lengthy task.

There are several sections along the road that are in severely bad condition. One mountain seems to be completely falling apart on one side, the side the road was built on. So, the road needs to be made over and over as rockslides and mudslides take over on a daily basis. The road there is made of gravel which could potentially slip off the mountain at any moment, sliding into the deep abyss of the Enguri River.

But, if you’re not looking at the road, its condition, of the vehicle’s direction, there is a lovely view. Just on the other side of the valley are enormous snow-capped mountains, week-old avalanches, small villages near the base of the mountains, and sometimes one can spot the famous Svan Watch Towers.

These Watch Towers are hundreds of years old, and clearly a party of Svaneti’s landscape and cultural identity. Many people live in the towers, or at least build their homes around the watch towers.

After the traumatizing bus ride to Mestia, one of Svaneti’s main towns, also home to dozens of watch towers (somewhere around sixty-five), I victoriously walked off the bus.

My first visit was to a watch tower, because it was Monday and the local Museum was closed.

After walking through some back roads, I arrived at a friend’s tower. Around it was built a beautiful house, with windows plastered everywhere on the house. Inside was the work of an expert carpenter. The wood work was intricate, artistic, and everywhere. On the second floor were ram and goat skins, as well as one huge brown bear skin. Next to the bear skin was a small door, the bear skin guarding it perhaps. It was the door to the tower.

It was dark and you couldn’t see much. Plus I got black dust all over me and my clothes which haven’t been washed in over ten days. To be entirely honest I don’t really keep track, but my clothes haven’t been washed in probably over a month and a half.

The watch towers are quite majestic from the outside though.

Did I mention that the man with the AK-47 rode on the bus? Right behind my seat? With the AK-47 propped right behind my seat?

The way back from Mestia to my village seemed much quicker. The driver still wearing the sunglasses.

All the men on the bus were drunk, or at least it seemed so. I think that getting drunk for men here serves two purposes, one is to share a time of patting each other on the back by toasting with words that one man would not say to another in any other situation other than a toast. And the second reason, I submit, is to cope with a frightening ride through the Svaneti Mountains on such a dangerous road.

The bus stopped at a halfway point to let a few passengers off. I got off to take some pictures, a.k.a. to get fresh air. It was cloudy and hazy and there was nothing to take pictures of. As I got back on the bus I looked over at the ‘bus stop’ and saw a man emerging from behind a wall. He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and stomped his feet on the street to get the mud off his shoes. He was dressed in a camouflage jacket, wore a Svan hat, and covered his eyes with a pair of sunglasses.

THE END

Meet the Animals

Meet the Village

Dadeshkeliani Tower

Village leader (right)
Tamada
Funeral Supra
Funeral Supra 2
Mestia

Meet some more friends

Meet some friends

Welcome to Svaneti

Please, come in and have a look

Here live the Svans

Mestia, Svaneti

I do owe a huge apology to all of you. Please forgive my absence of posts. I do, however, have an exceptional excuse, and that is that I have not been able to access internet, much less a computer for about a week and a half now. I have been in the mountains of Svaneti for the past week gathering information for my ethnographic paper. I'm writing about the Svans. They are known to be the 'purest' Georgians because they have mixed the least with other groups such as the Persians and Turks (during those invasions). It is a very difficult region to access, the roads are terribly, and there are sporadic kidnappings of foreigners, etc. Luckily I've managed to avoid any kind of crime thus far.

I will give more details about where I have visited and what I have done once I return to Tbilisi. I don't want to give to much information yet on where I am. I'll be back soon. I have some good stories to post, stay tuned!

peace