Tag: Brutalist

2019 Holiday Season was coming. We wanted to experience winter, ergo to travel to Northern hemisphere country. Outside ASEAN. With our abysmally weak Indonesian passports, we needed  to apply visa. The basic requirement for a visa is to provide proof of sufficient funding to pay for our travel expenses. Typically, we must demonstrate that we have cash in the sum of the entire travelling costs deposited in our bank account for three months. We didn’t have liquid cash reserve because I resigned from my job in 2019.

Our friends, who have travelled to Georgia, told us that Georgian visas do not require applicants to provide evidence of financial means in the submission (the immigration officer may ask when entering, but rarely happens). Visa applications can be made online. The visa processing time by Georgian Ministry of Foreign Affairs is 5 business days. My visa was issued within 4 business days after payment, well within the timeline. However, I was worried because my partner’s visa was issued within 20 minutes. Perhaps because she is a woman, therefore considered less likely to be a violent criminal or terrorist.

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The exoticism of Communism and everything Soviet

Georgia was a part of the Soviet Union. This was where the Bolsheviks experimented to create a communist utopia: a world with no inequality. Perhaps, ultimately, a world with no need for money. A grand beautiful idea. Unfortunately (or fortunately), the ideology failed. The Soviet Union collapsed. The Yugoslav Republic dissolved. The People’s Republic of China turned to state/centralised capitalism. Vietnam is open for global business. In Georgia, I learned the disillusions and paradox of communism and the people who lived under a totalitarian 20th century empire.

I read in Svetlana Alexievich’s Secondhand Time: The Last of The Soviets that in the Soviet Union you were not allowed to own posh houses and luxury cars, yet you were allowed to own a lot of books. Everyone received the same salary. Jobs were assigned and housing provided by the government. Poverty was not a condition to be ashamed of (everyone was equally poor).

In a society that does not worship wealth, intellect was a staple social currency. Therefore, reading books was equivalent to selling or making money in capitalist societies. Paradoxically, the Soviet Regime was a totalitarian thought police. Critical thinking were privilege reserved for the party’s elites and scientists. Censorship was the norm. The common Soviet intellectuals and dissenters had to resort to samizdat (reproduced publications, often by hand, circulated from reader to reader) to read illegal or censored materials which were considered anti-revolutionary, such as The Gulag Archipelago.

However, censorship in a way is a cultural propaganda curation. The cultural committee vetted cultural production and dissemination. The committee may be politically biased but at least their members have certain degree of qualifications and taste—unlike the common market which curation/manipulation is driven by advertising. While many great ideas and artworks became inaccessible due to Soviet censorship, many cultural rubbish—the byproducts of capitalism (e.g. petit bourgeois lifestyle magazines, soap operas, the so-called reality shows)—were prevented to be served to the public.  

I grew up in Indonesia under the New Order Regime, a right wing military dictatorship of General Suharto. A regime supported by the CIA in the coup against Soekarno’s Old Order Regime—which was friendly to the Soviet and anti-West. Suharto rose to power by purging communism in Indonesia. Through my childhood and adolescent, I was indoctrinated with anti-communist propaganda. 

“Those communists are godless and evil! They are enemies of god and religion! They torture people. Under their rule, you have to share your wives with other men!” Such is the surface level narratives which teachers and adults told children, including to justify the systematic massacre of thousands of communists; their sympathisers; and everyone suspected to be affiliated with them in 1965. (The success of the CIA backed counter revolutionary measure—the 1965 Purge—employed by the New Order government cannot be understated. The measure was then dubbed as the Jakarta Method, repeated among others in Argentina, Chile, and Brazil.) Until now, being apologetic of the 1965 Purge or showing any sympathy for the victims would be branded as unpatriotic.

Books and films with communist or socialist messages were banned; imports and circulations of Russian and Chinese literatures, regardless of the content, were restricted. Left leaning writers were made political prisoners or liquidated. Every 30 September, the national television broadcasted Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI, the propaganda docudrama filmon the failed coup by the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, the PKI). The film depicts the kidnapping, torture, and killing of seven generals by the PKI apparatus. (From a filmmaking perspective, the film is well made. I think the film successfully incepted Indonesians’ psyche on how evil and cruel the communists were.) 

Bourgeoise narratives were promoted through art or entertainment media, emphasising on individuality and personal liberty. We were sold the imitation of American dream: the Indonesian dream. Best represented by Catatan si Boy. Boy is the archetype of Jakarta hunk (portrayed by 90s heartthrob Onky Alexander). The ideal male drives a Ferrari or other luxury sports car. . He frequents the nightclubs with his bloke friends and sexy girlfriends, but doesn’t drink alcohol; never forgets his shalah; and refrains from pre-marital sex. He’s fierce at street brawls yet smart at school. His political dynasty/business tycoon family own mansions with swimming pools in Jakarta and Los Angeles. Americanised yet true to his Indonesian pribumi Muslim heritage. Miami Vice luxury sans its vices.

Growing up in petit bourgeois pribumi Muslim of Javanese feudalistic family heritage, supplemented with American blockbuster films;  propaganda news; quizzes; Indonesian soap operas (the sinetron, abbreviation of sinema elektronik); Mexican telenovelas; and MTV music videos, made socialism an alien idea to me. Hollywood’s 80s and 90s action flicks I consumed antagonised the communists and the Soviets—the Russians and the Eastern Europeans in general. I was not familiar with the Greek Church, as the Indonesian government only recognises the Latin and the German Churches’ versions of Christianity as the state’s official religions.

Georgia, therefore, is exotic for me as a Western educated atheist Muslim Indonesian: The second Christendom; the Western frontier of the Silk Road; an ex-Soviet East European country leaning to the EU and NATO. This is where the foreign and unfamiliar myths converge: Orthodox Christianity, the East-West divide, communism, and the modern humanist economic and military international organisations. 

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Arrival

We arrived in Shota Rustaveli Tbilisi International Airport in the morning. The officer in the passport control booth took her time when checking my travel documents. She discussed something with her colleagues.

I was a little worried. I have this assumption that East Europeans have tendency to be racist, especially toward brown people/Muslims. I am not saying there is no racism in the West, but they discuss it openly and fiercely there. An issue discussed is half addressed. The West, at least, has a certain level of political correctness to mitigate outright racist treatments. 

Historically and geographically, Georgia is surrounded by Muslim countries and there have been violent conflicts with its neighbouring countries. Some with religion as the underlying or justifying element. Furthermore, Georgia is not a favourite destination to immigrate (not a first world and not an English or French speaking country), therefore—I assume—not exposed much to multiculturalism and diversity.

The immigration officer stamped my passport, and gave me a bottle of red wine with the following welcome note (emphasis added):

“Gamarjoba Dear Guest,

You’ve only stepped on our land—the birthplace of wine and you already know our most important word—‘Hello’.

Georgia is a foodie heaven so size bigger pants [sic] might come in handy. Here you’ll meet people who wear their heart on their sleeve. Hospitality is our second name, so receive this gift as a sneak peek of what’s to come.

Wish you a pleasant stay and see you around!

Regards,

Georgia”

Georgia is a wine producing country. In fact, it claims as the origin of wine. They still maintain the traditional qveri wine making  for more than 8,000 years. Georgian culture insists on hospitality. There is a Georgian proverb: “A guest is a gift from God.” 

The immigration wine was our first taste of Georgian wine and hospitality, which made us feel more than welcomed. Perhaps the immigration officers were discussing whether it would be offensive to give a visitor from the largest Muslim country (therefore, likely to be a Muslim) an alcoholic drinks?

We bought a 4G nano SIM card for our smartphones at the airport. We chose the MAGTI because, according to Lonely Planet, it has the widest coverage around Georgia. The booth staff helped us with the paperworks, which are in Georgian, so we could just sign them (if the documents were admission of guilt or acknowledgement of debt, I would never know). She also helped us with the phone settings. Each of us bought 5 GB data plan. It was enough to last for two weeks of heavy use of Instagram, Google Maps, and Bolt (a ride hailing app). Wifi is widely available.

We booked an airport transfer from our Airbnb Superhost Besik. Usually, we prefer to take public transport to save money and for social diving. However, we anticipated we would be tired after the long flight from Jakarta with a layover in Doha.

We got more than we bargained. The cost was much cheaper from airport transfer in Jakarta. Besik himself picked us up, with his Camry. The best part of the deal is to know him personally.

Georgia is a small country but offers so much for travellers with its Caucasian landscapes and Eurasian culture. We planned to spend 6 nights in Tbilisi, including day trips to Gori and Davit Gareja; 2 nights in Kazbegi; 3 nights in Sighnagi; 3 nights in Borjomi with a day trip to Vardzia. However, we had to change our itineraries since I had an accident in Kazbegi. I broke my left ankle. Certain destinations such as Davit Gareja and Vardzia were not accessible for travellers with disability.

Tbilisi is the base for traveling within Georgia unless you self drive. Most roads and rails connecting the country pass through Tbilisi. Before we arrived, we thought we would brave the mashrutkas (minivans). But then their schedules are not too reliable and renting a car with a driver for intercity transport is not expensive. There are many drivers offering such service.

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Tbilisi

Concrete communism era grey building blocks. Brutalist monuments. Sepia old churches, old houses, and fortresses. Bombed with colourful graffiti and artisan shops. Not swarmed (yet) with the excess of consumerism; fast food chains and fast fashion retailers kept at minimum (we only saw one Starbucks outlet, one McDonald’s, and one H&M). Tbilisi has that Soviet gritty cultured charm. 

We ended up spending 9 nights instead in Tbilisi due to my fractured ankle. The capital is not the friendliest city for disabled travellers by European standards, but  still the friendliest in Georgia. Even that was not too long to stay in and explore the City of Joy and tasted the best of Georgian experience.  Maybe I am a city boy after all. 

Tbilisi’s metro system is not that efficient. If you are staying near the central area, the main sights are reachable by walking. But do take the metro if you’re like me: a traveller who takes public transport to get the feel of a city. The stations have the bohemian charms: the rusty entry-exit gates, creaky old  escalators which take you slowly to the deep bunker-like underground platforms, the brutalist bust of a national hero, the absence of advertisements, and they are surprisingly clean compared to London’s and Paris’—despite the shabby looks. 

Airbnb designer’s flats in Tbilisi are marvellous (and cheap). We stayed in four different flats within or near the city centre, but never in the Old Town. All flats are testament to Tbilisians general good taste.

Our first accommodation is a two storied  flat (Besik’s) near the Saarbriucken Square. The flat is in a shabby housing compound at Tkviavi dead end alley. The only modern minimalist flat among the neighbouring old houses. The first floor has a living room and kitchen. The bedroom and the bathroom are on the second floor. The toilet is equipped with a bidet. A great selling point for Asians. The balcony would be a nice place to sit in warmer months.

The real steal was our last minute Airbnb booking when we changed our itineraries : two bedroom flat, with a drawing room and a reading room with a fireplace, at Dimitri Uznade Street. Its balcony has a view of the ferris wheel of Mtatsminda Mountain. The centre of the drawing room is only furnished with a carpet—the chairs and sofas, and a lovely desk where you can work—are at the corner; creating a spacious yet intimate feel. It was nice to sit and recline on the carpet with a bottle of wine (or two—or more—you’re in Georgia). If you’re feeling social, you can invite people for a small party in that drawing room. The bathroom has a vintage metal tub to complete the brutalist design.

 Tbilisi’s main attractions are theatres, museums, exhibition galleries, bookshops, parks, churches and castles, artisan shops, hip restaurants and bars. Tbilisi is a hipsters’ (and cultured snobs’) paradise.

On our first day, we walked past the Dry Bridge Market. Stalls selling antiques and trinkets, including Soviet memorabilia. We were visiting on a weekday; I read weekends are more exciting there. In any case, it was the appetiser for our trip.

My favourite Tbilisi experience was Zurab Tsereteli Museum of Modern Art. There was a special exhibition on Halla bint Khalid’s works: Tasleemah paintings and A Wife is… A Husband is… (AWI-AHI) installations. Tasleemah focuses on Halla’s experience in her Hajj—she painted what she observed during her pilgrimage. While AWI-AHI is a satirical collection of modified household objects representing marriage relationships.

Halla is a female Saudi artist. She has illustrated many Saudi children’s books and her works often depict the lives of Saudis. The encounter with Halla at the MOMA debunked my initial prejudice (that there is no effort to discuss issues of xenophobia, particularly racism against Muslims). 

Halla also represents the progressive social evolution in Saudi. Many Saudis subscribe to Wahabbism/Salafism, the strictest school of thought in Sunni Islam. Under this doctrine, Muslims are prohibited to create images with the likeness of God’s creation. Halla’s paintings are not iconoclast and  she is a woman. It was only recently that women are allowed to drive. Imagine the glass ceilings she needed to break to pursue her career as an illustrator-painter-sculptor. 

Halla is privileged to have parents who are supportive to her talents. During the Hajj, she did not follow the traditional Hajj rituals; she made sketches. However, her mother understood that was the way she prays. Her family’s wealth allows them to invest in her art education. Some of her chauffeurs and servants became the muses for paintings on Saudi life.

The permanent exhibition’s collection focuses on Zurab Tsereteli. The Soviet Tbilisi-born artist seems take most of his inspirations from Bohemian Europe. The time when Europeans experimented with sexual liberations. One of this most captivating sculptor is the Apple of Love, exhibited at the MOMA’s garden. The metal dome depicts the sexuality of many cultures—from European nymphs and fairies engaging in Dionysian orgy with satyrs to Indian Kama Sutra positions. Tsereteli’s favourite artists, of which he made full body sculptures, are Marc Chagall; Henri Matisse; Amedeo Modigliani; Pablo Picasso; Henri Rousseau; Vincent van Gogh; and the Georgian maestro Niko Pirosmani. Charlie Chaplin is also the muse for his paintings.

It is fascinating that artists can produce art whether they live in a closed or an open society. The permanent and special exhibitions at the MOMA are another testament of the transcendental nature of art.

Alain de Botton in Religion for Atheists posits that museums are temples for the atheists (they serve the same purpose: people come to congregate and marvel at something higher than their daily existence and the rich donates their money to). Therefore, I prayed at MOMA. Through Zurab and Halla and other modern artists enshrined in that museum.

Niko Pirosmani’s works are exhibited at The National Gallery. When we dropped by, there were a group of toddlers celebrating a birthday. They made drawings imitating Pirosmani’s paintings, which are childlike. Tbilisians cultural taste are developed at early stages of life. The graphic novel adaption of Shota Rustaveli’s The Knight in the Panther’s Skin is sold here. Unfortunately, no English version was available.

I also visited The Georgian National Museum. I was most interested in the Soviet Occupation Hall. I had expected that the narratives would be very partisan (anti-Soviet and subtly anti-Russia); portraying members of the Georgian aristocracy and the clergy, the usual targets of communist revolutions, as martyrs. I would not mind partisanship as long as they make good stories. But, unfortunately, the exhibitions were not too helpful in explaining the context for me, who was uninitiated with Soviet history. For example, there was a wooden train car full of bullet holes; it was barraged with a Maxim machine gun. While it was cool to see and touch the exhibits (the car and machine gun), the information provided was only “Georgian patriots massacred by the Checkists.”  (I did not know that “Checkist’ is the term for Lenin era Soviet secret police).

The anti-Russian sentiments are understandable. The Soviet Union, despite its ideal to be an institution for all humanity, was ruled mostly by the Russians (except Joseph Stalin, who was a Georgian). 

While the Union emphasised on equality for all humankind, racism existed. As in its western counterpart, whiteness was also seen as superiority. Until now, churka (the derogatory term for anyone from the Caucasus region who are not or less white than the typical blonde Russians) is still used as racial slur in Russian.

The Georgians and other ex-Soviet Caucasian nations also have their share of racism. After the fall of the Soviet empire, racial tensions exploded into crimes against humanity. The Georgians with the Abazkhazian; the Azeris and the Armenians; the Chechens and the Russians, massacring each other in ‘us-and-them’ frenzies.

During the Soviet times, Georgia was made to supply wine for the entire empire and became their vacation destination (Soviet citizens were not allowed to travel outside Soviet territory without special permit) hence dubbed as the ‘Soviet Riviera’. Until now many ignorant Russian tourists treat Georgia merely as a holiday destination, a playground. Often acting rude and inconsiderate, as some Western tourists in Thailand or Bali.

When Georgia declared independence from the Union, the Russian punished them by cutting off electricity supply which resulted in the post-Soviet blackout era. A period of scarcity and lawlessness in Georgia when it was not unusual for a schoolboy to carry a firearm (e.g. Besik our Airbnb superhost). Later, the Russians supported the Ossetians separatist movement. In 2003, the Russians bombed Georgia and occupied South Ossetia (until now).

The National Museum also has a collection of artefacts from ancient kingdoms of Georgia; Georgian flora and fauna; and the protohumans. Worth visiting for people interested in anthropology and archeology.

After more than 3 hours in the museum, we took a break and had coffee at Prospero’s Books, the first English bookshop in Tbilisi. I bought Charles Bukowski’s Essentials. I am not much of a poetry guy. However, the raw Beatnik appeal of Bukowski had me at the first poem. I have been his fan ever since. 

The warmth of the heater and the coffee, the quiet of the reading room and the afternoon stillness, made drowsy. So I took a nap. After recharging by pondering on all things abstract, and observing Tbilisian intellectuals, we went to the cable car station. 

We wanted to go to the Narikala Fortress. 

However, the cable car was closed for a film shoot. At first I was upset, but in travel as in life you have to be adaptable (and it was not some serious event). So we walked uphill to the Fortress. We walked past and around the Old Town, making mini detours following our curiosity. 

Went inside the Sioni Cathedral and saw Orthodox prayer in session; with chants and liturgical music. It was the first time I saw an Orthodox religious rite. 

I bought an image of Saint George the Dragonslayer at Basilica Anchiskati. The church lady asked if I am a Catholic. Maybe she thought I was a Pinoy. (We have met tourists with South East Asian looks at the airport and in downtown Tbilisi. I tried to guess which country they are from, until they speak Tagalog. I don’t think Georgia is popular yet with South East Asians—definitely not among Indonesians—but it seems there are enough Filipinos coming for Georgians to notice. A beggar greeted me, “Mabuhai! Viva la Duterte!”)

We missed the English performance of a marionette play in Rezo Gabriadze Theatre. So we just  held a vigil before the Clock Tower to see the mechanical angel strike the bell of the hour. In the age of portable atomic timekeepers connected to the internet, when almost everyone has access to know the precise time of the day, seeing an old dilapidated local timekeeping device was a romantic experience. 

When we reached the Fortress, the sun was setting. We saw Tbilisi at the golden hour and the lighting up of the City of Joy from the walls. I trespassed to the highest tower, where a giant cross is erected. The view was not much different, but I felt like a badass for taking the risk of falling over when climbing the tower and getting caught (those stupid thrills induced by toxic masculinity).

The film shoot was finished after our visit to Narikala and we could take the cable car back to the city. The ride gave us a bird-eye view of the Old Town.

We visited Fabrika to close our night. The building complex was a Soviet sewing factory, now converted into a hipster mecca: burgers, Asian food, bars, coffee shops, bookshops, and other shops with the ‘artisan’ word. A designer hostel; graffiti bombed walls; old cars; and derelict yet functioning furnitures completed the atmosphere.

We did chacha shots at Moulin Electrique Fabrika, a bar with edgy interior design. It was the weekend, the bar was full of young Tbilisians. None of them is out of style. We were the only three foreigners (the other one is an American black guy, I presumed from his accent). The server gave extra shots.

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Food

“Life as Georgians is hard. You have to eat and drink a lot.”

—Besik, Airbnb Superhost. 

Georgian food is distinctively European but with the spicy flair of Asian taste. Georgian hospitality and wine culture means they take eating and drinking seriously. Supra (feasts) and parties are held regularly.

We took the Culinary Backstreet Tour to understand better Georgian food culture. We met with our guide Kristo at the meeting point. There were only four participants: the two of us and the Israeli-American couple from Atlanta Rebecca and Roni. 

The Tour took us to restaurants and stalls serving specialty Georgian food. We started with khachapuri (goat cheese bread) at Sakhacapure N1. Then Kristo took us to the Deserter’s Market. The market got its name because it was where the Georgian soldiers who deserted from the Russian Imperial Army in 1920 sold their military kits. We were explained about Georgian herbs, spices, cheeses, breads, honey and tried some of the produce sold at stalls.

We had breakfast before the tour. Bad planning. It was not even lunchtime and I felt very full from the food tastings. I always feel guilty for wasting food so I forced myself to keep eating. Roni shared the same sentiments. I vomited out of overeating, then I ate again. It was an excess, a gastronomic orgy.  I was forced to make an exception to my rule of not wasting food as I didn’t want to get sick. 

We stopped at two or three more restaurants, I lost track of the names. One of them serves very good khinkali (wonton shaped dumplings). All I remember I was feeling perpetually full and guilty of gluttony. I prefer moderation in consuming food. To stop when I am satiated. To finish the meals served. To be attentive and focused on limited types of food. 

Had a wine tasting at Vino Underground. Then we ended the tour with a wonderful dinner at Ezo. The restaurant is really good, we were already full but we could still enjoy the deliciousness of the food. We returned the next day to Ezo and ordered food intentionally when we were hungry. It was more satisfying.

When food is shared, stories are exchanged. We were lucky to have Kristo, Rony and Rebecca on the tour.

Kristo was (or still is) an activist. She participated in the protests and events leading to the 2003 Rose Revolution. Her parents were in the anti-Soviet demonstration of 9 April 1989, the historic demonstration which was violently dispersed by the Soviet Army and radicalised Georgian opposition to Soviet power. The 9 April Tragedy became the catalyst of the Georgian Independence by a referendum in 1991. Kristo complained that young Georgians are apathetic today, “Happy sticking their faces to their [smartphone] screens.”

Rony is a software engineer and Rebecca works in US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). When Georgians asked them where they came from, they said “Georgia, America.”Some are puzzled, and some greeted “Viva Donald Trump!” 

The couple have travelled in many interesting parts of the world. It is hopeful to see a married couple with children (and a dog) who can still be adventurous. It demonstrates marriage can be not boring, even when you have children. 

Rony is at least trilingual. He speaks English, Hebrew, and Arabic. His grandmother is Moroccan.

When we were served pork dishes at Ezo, I remarked that this is definitely not kosher or halal. Rony told us his adventures travelling in Papua New Guinea right after his national services in the IDF. In Port Moresby, he received an invitation from a government official to attend a cultural event as an effort to promote diplomatic relationship between PNG and Israel. The cultural event was a traditional (tribal) dinner party, where the Papuans roasted a boar in a pit. Perhaps that PNG government official was unaware that Israel has strong Jewish traditions (or their intelligence services have profiled Roni so well that they know he’d be open to such cultural exchange). 

Indonesia, the largest Muslim country in the world and a founding member of the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation, has no diplomatic relationship with Israel (despite the countries’ strategic military partnership). Anti-semitism does not qualify as hate crime, even culturally acceptable, in Indonesia. There we were, Israeli and Indonesians shared a non-halal/non-kosher food. We had good laughs and enjoyed the food and wine served. 

We also tried dinner with a local family. Our hosts were Mari and Levan, a Tbilisian couple. You can choose to join the food preparation, but since we were not much of cooks we just opted for dinner only. Their apartment is located outside Tbilisi, a typical Soviet housing block where you need to insert coins to use the lift. They told us that during the fall of the Soviet Union, many people took advantage of the privatisation of land and properties. However, their parents were too honest to claim more than their actual lawful rights for their housing needs.

Mari and Levan are in their mid-and late twenties. They were not in school yet during the post-Soviet blackout. They said they were glad that they now have choices, unlike their parents during the Soviet times. Back then the government decides everything for you. I contended that, in the so-called free market, choices may be an illusion. You do have freedom of choices, but only to the extent of your capital and buying power.

The food kept coming and the wine flowing. Mari and Levan explained Georgians take hosting as serious social matter. Empty tables and bad wine which causes hangovers would bring shame to the host. Therefore, we did not need to finish everything served (not that it was possible for us). We packed some of the food and had them for breakfast.

Other recommended restaurants we recommend are:

Tiflis Cafe at Zaarbriuken Square: a 24 hour restaurant/sports bar. At first, I was sceptical of any cheap place which serves food and drinks around the clock. But Tiflis deliver decent Georgian food—especially with their price tags. 

Cheveni: we went twice to this restaurant. The star dishes for us are the chicken soup and pumpkin balls. Their home produced chacha is also excellent.

Shavi Lomi(Black Lion): the best Georgian food we had. The spicy sausage was one of the best meals we ever had.

Moulin Electrique Old Town: the first ME before Fabrika with bohemian interior design. Other than drinks, we had lunch of delicious Thai curries.

Entree: a good place to start your day with a French style or continental breakfast.

9 Mta: a good selection of craft beers with decent West European food. They also serve Georgian food.

Piano: in case you miss the comforts of Italian food. The wine served is Georgian though.

Pipes Burgers Fabrika: the staple food for hipsters or any tourist wants to be sure what they are ordering in Georgia. Yes, they use the word ‘artisan’.

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Kazbegi

The ride from Tbilisi to Kazbegi was adorned with Georgian country landscape: arid, rocky, dry forests slowly turned into snow covered terrains as we approached the Caucasus. DJ Besik drove us, played his playlist, negotiating the road against cross-border lorries (many of them Turkish, which explains the roadside halal restaurants). Speed limit is not enforced in Georgia.

We had a grand pit stop for toilet break at Ananuri Castle. You can take a picture with Georgian traditional fur coat and an eagle here, but we were unsure if the animal is treated ethically for such business. In any case, it was a too touristy thing to do. So we passed and just explored the castle with a lake view.

We were staying at Rooms Hotel Kazbegi, one of the best hotels in Europe. With its Soviet turbanza (communal vacation) style design, the hotel gave the false impression of spartan facilities. Yet, it has a 24 hour bar, viewing deck, an outdoor jacuzzi, a spa, an indoor hot water swimming pool, and a casino. Steppenwolf-esque masked luxuries, in which the bourgeois apologetically romanticised proletarian way of lives.

Our check in was seamless. We arrived at 1230, and the check in time was 1500. However, our room was ready upon our arrival. 301 is one of the nicest rooms with a mountain view, they claimed. We got a complimentary bottle of dry red wine since we booked direct. 

We had lunch at the restaurant/bar/library. We ordered Georgian chicken soup, pork chop and pumpkin salad for lunch. Then coffee and Soviet cake, medok, as dessert. None of the library books are in English, they are all in Russian and Georgian (maybe most of the guests who stay are Russians).  Good thing we brought our own books. I continued reading Narcissus and Goldmund;intermittently I played my smartphone—curating my Instagram posts and reviewing my past posts.

The best thing to do in Kazbegi is to gaze at the mountain. Either you are just sitting in your room or the viewing deck, swimming in the pool; having your coffee in the morning or drinking chacha and wine at night (time of the drinks may be adjusted according to your personal taste); dining in the restaurant. Watching the colours of the sky and the earth change according to the time of the day is the journey and the destination when visiting Kazbegi. 

I woke up before dawn and saw the mountain in the blue hour. Waited and meditated on the sunrise with its golden glory. I listened to Coldplay’s Sunrise and Suede’s Life is Golden to accompany the awe I was experiencing. I incepted and moulded the visual and auditory sensations to my consciousness; those two songs became the cues for the memories of the mountain. A torrent of grateful reflections came to my mind. 

We went to the only landmark in the area, the Gergeti Trinity Church up in the mountain. You can walk from the hotel for about an hour or ask for a 4WD transport (like we did). There was a funicular from Gergeti Village built during the Soviet era, but the locals destroyed it to protect the church from over-tourism.

The view from the church is grand at any time of the day, so we timed our visit just before lunch when it was less crowded (the day-trippers usually come in the morning and leave before lunch).

On the way to and from the church, the road was covered in ice and snow. There is a stopover place for pedestrians with a lovely wooden bench. The thick snow fascinated me—another exoticism for tropical human. I asked the driver to pullover and crossed the slippery icy road to take pictures. Took some pictures (and a self portrait using the remote shutter button).

I was over excited for the snow and joyfully jumping around when crossing back to the car. Needless to say, I was overconfident of my coordination and underestimated the slippery icy road. I fell down. I knew how to break my fall and I did. However, the ice made me unable to lift my left leg when I was doing so. My left ankle was twisted.

I did not break my camera I was holding, but I knew I hurt my ankle. I was hoping it was only a sprain, however it was a fracture. I could not walk unassisted for the rest of the trip and the injury forced us to change our itineraries. 

Of course, it made our travel much more difficult. My hands were tired from using the crutches despite I am physically fit with good upper body strength. Taking a shower or going to the toilet was such a hassle. Many times I wished to go home or just stay in our room.  But I got the chance to be empathetic to disabled travellers and appreciate Dinda as my travel companion who carried most of our weights as well as the hospitable Georgians who lent us assistance, especially Besik (he transported us to a good hospital in Tbilisi; used his connection to cut the red tape in getting a prompt medical treatment by a good orthopaedic, who happens to be his friend; got us an emergency accommodation in Tbilisi; drove us and even pushed me around on wheelchair to see Jvari, Mtskhesa and Gori).

It was also the first time we had to use our travel insurance. We bought it from Worldnomads. I have to say I am pretty satisfied with their services. Despite the glitch on their website when making a claim; slow response from customer service due to the holiday season; and onerous paperworks, in the end they reimbursed all expenses related to the incident—including the transport costs as well as the purchase of a pair of crutches and a wheelchair.

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Kakheti: the wine region

The perks of being a Soviet. 

Communal living, guaranteed income, and limited entertainment meant people had time to get together (instead of working, hustling, to make money all or most of the time). Friends visited each other, went campings, attended poetry readings, cinemas, and play (Cf. Dining alone and watching unreal realty shows on widescreen television or handheld devices—of course, you’d be better off  watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians rather than being accused of subversive or dissent activities, interrogated and tortured, then sent to gulag and/or executed/unperson-ed).

I had the impression that many people living in the Kakheti Region enjoyed those perks. We based ourselves in Sighnaghi for exploring Kakheti. The Town of Love (some call it City of Love but I think the size does not merit Sighnaghi to be called a city) is a beautiful quaint town overlooking Alazani Valleys and the Caucasus Mountains with 18th and 19th centuries architectures buildings.

There are plenty of good and cheap guesthouses in Sighnaghi (Lonely Planet recommends travellers to stay at guest houses for local experience, rather than overpriced and impersonal hotels). We stayed at Zandarazhvili Guesthouse, ran and owned by the Zandarazhvilis. We booked via email, the response time was slow (similar speed for all guesthouses—blame it on language barrier and the relaxed atmosphere of the region) but we got reservation confirmation eventually. No advance payment needed. 

We were given an ensuite room on the ground floor because of my broken ankle. The room is basic, a little bland compared to designer flats in Tbilisi, but clean. The room rates can include breakfast and dinner, which gave us the local experience Lonely Planet is talking about. 

We were served delicious homemade Georgian food (so fresh that the vegetables came from their garden and the matriarch even butchered one of her piglets for us). Free flow house wine and chacha are available 24/7. We always dine in the common area, where the Zandarazhvilis get together. They showed us family pictures from Soviet times; one of them is a big family picnic as idyllic as in French films.

Since the Zandarazhvilis’ home cooked meals are great, we only ate out at Pheasant’s Tears. The food, wine and chacha there are excellent. On our first dinner there, I was sad due to my disabled condition, even the wonderful wine could not curb such a feeling. A cute blonde drunk American girl who was wine tasting came to me, told me she liked my hair and gave me a high five. Those simple words and gestures lifted my mood. I was intoxicated with the wine and her kindness. I wish we had exchanged names. Whoever you are, I thank you.

On our first morning, Guram the patriarch took us to the Bodbe Monastery with his trusty old Toyota 4WD. The monastery is the resting place of Saint Nino, Georgia’s most important saint (her miracle was converting Georgians to Christianity). The complex has more colourful gardens compared to other Orthodox monasteries we visited. The caretakers of the monastery are nuns, not monks. 

We had fun observing tourists taking pictures and selfies. There was a group of South Asian middle aged men who travelled together. Their poses are very intimate; two men embracing each other. Hands on each other’s hips. Affectionate, almost sexual, body language and expressions between men in South Asia is common. Learned that in Sri Lanka.

You can walk to the monastery from the town centre. It would have been nice to walk there, but it would take all day with one leg and crutches.

When the bus tours began to crowd, we left the monastery and returned to Sighnaghi. Guram stopped by a hill overlooking the town. A zip line is installed there, one can fly from there to the town centre. Must have been a breathtaking view and thrilling experience. Maybe I would have tried if I was not handicapped, if I can muster the courage.

We were dropped by Guram at the town centre. We wanted to go sightseeing around the town, but Sighnaghi’s elevated terrain and cobbled streets are not friendly for people with disabilities. It was impossible to use a wheelchair and to walk with crutches were too strenuous for me. Therefore, I sat on a park bench near Sighnaghi National Museum and my travelling companion roamed by herself.

The weather was lovely that day. The warmth of the winter sun was comforting: not too hot and not too cold. The golden ray casted shadows from the trees and buildings. Locals were selling Georgian souvenirs, snacks, and trinkets in the park. Taxi drivers were waiting for business to come. A group of Israeli tourists passing by, some bought souvenirs. Two local kids played and stared curiously at me, an alien with crutches. A man drank from the fountain.

I have not heard of David Whyte at that time, but it was one of the moments where one could enjoy A Seeming Stillness; objects move slowly as if they are standing still which gives a calming effect. I almost forgot that my ankle was broken. Being in the open allowed me to enjoy the trip. When I was indoors, I felt trapped and worried about many things related to the injured leg (Can the wheelchair be reimbursed? How much I have spent on the medical costs? How do I report on the first day of working? How do I exercise?). 

We visited the museum later. It has the second largest collection of Pirosmani’s paintings after Tbilisi’s National Gallery. There are also works of other great artists. While wandering the museum, we saw a door leading to the balcony with a valley view. It was locked. A museum staff was walking towards the door and saw us. He opened the door; the balcony is his place for smoke breaks. We had that lost in translation chat while enjoying the view, relying on sign and body languages with intermittent English words. He’s been working for the museum for decades. His son is a pianist. He asked where we are from. He collects money notes from around the world, so we gave him a 5,000 Rupiah note. It was his first Rupiah. Hope he would not be disappointed when he knew it’s just less than 50 cents.

We booked a wine tour from the guesthouse. Our driver was Georgi, one of the Zandarashvilis. A slim quiet twenty something guy. I tried to chat with him, to break the ice. He only replied or answered as asked. I don’t know if it’s the language barrier or he’s just not a chatty driver.

Georgi seemed content with his lot in this wine region. He was married at 18; has children; does the errands ordered by the Zandarshvilis; drives the tourists on wine tours. He played his playlist in the van. Georgian and Russian songs. His favourite singer is Vlad Nezhniyy. I think he’s Russian (and from his album artworks, a nationalist). He has that heavy hoarse vocal, like Louis Armstrong. I searched him on Spotify, Vlad does a lot of cover versions on Sinatra’s songs.

Our first stop on the wine tour was Kvelatsminda Monastery. The path to the monastery is a pebbled walkway, restricted to cars. We had to walk from the parking lot. A struggle since it is not wheelchair accessible; again I had to rely on my crutches. 

The struggle was compensated by the view. It was winter, but the weather was autumnal. Dried tree branches, fallen brown and red leaves, under the golden sun shining over the clear blue sky. Always my favourite weather to walk .

When we saw the monastery, the resident dog gave a warm welcome. The resident monk saw my casted leg. He asked if we had a car in broken English. We told him our driver is waiting at the parking lot. The monk went away to the direction of the parking lot and returned with Georgi and our van. We were exempted from no car rule due to my disability.

I thanked the monk and tried to converse with him (in English). But he was either shy or speak very little English or preferred silence and only replied with a vague nod (Georgians are hospitable but not too expressive with their facial cues; living the image of stone cold Soviets).

Kvelatsminda is my favourite monastery in Georgia. The monastery and the surrounding landscape is one of the most beautiful environments I have ever been in. The Orthodox iconographies in secluded woods made the atmosphere primeval. 

I took the time to sit on the bench outside, and made sketches of the monastery. Watched the monk sitting at the front of the church with his prayer beads. Looking past his beard and traditional black Orthodox robe, he is quite young. Perhaps still a novice. I wonder why he decided to join the Greek Church. Is it faith and piety? Or did he know that he can be posted in this idyllic monastery (which is better than to be trapped in a sterile cubicle working for a more overtly commercial corporation or a bureaucractic government agency)?

Then we had our first one tasting in Georgia at Nikolasvhili Winery. We had red and white (golden/amber) wines; chacha and cherry spirits. The proprietors are wonderful hosts. We were shown the wine cellar where they make wines with the qveri method: the fresh grapes are grounded by stomping; the juice (with the pulps) is stored inside the qveri claypot, literally an underground fermentation silo with constant temperature.

It was still AM but we drank, accompanied with generous consumption of cheese and olives. The wine cellar cat sat on my lap. The lady of the winery only spoke Georgian and Russian because she was (or still is) a Soviet. Georgi helped translate. The wines made our communication fluid.

We were intoxicated at the best level when we left the winery. That happy tipsy state, not too drunk nor too sober. I stepped back in my mind and observed this feeling of joy. 

‘Just like sadness or other negative emotions, it will not last,’ I thought. 

I am not sad by ephemerality anymore. I am even more grateful and savoured the positive feelings while it lasts.

The second stop was the Wine Museum. Our guide Alexandre is a power lifter. He taught us that in Georgian supras, you may be challenged to drink from a horn cup. When drinking from a horn, you’d need to bottoms up because you cannot put it down like a glass. He showed us the ‘small’ one litre horn (for women) and the big intimidating horn. It reminded me of Thor, when he was challenged to drink from a magic horn. He could not finish it, because the mead he drank was actually the sea. Alexandre told us he can only drink one litre of wine from a horn. 

It was unfortunate Alexandre could not join us in the practicum session because he was, technically, working. No horn. We can’t even drink 1 litre of water in one go. When he saw Dinda drinking, he told her she’s a good drinker. With practice, she would be able to finish a horn.

We had lunch at Bravo in Telavi, the biggest city in Kakheti. While it has better infrastructures, we think it is best to stay at Sighnaghi for the experience. Unless, of course, you need to do some business.

Georgi had an errand and picked us up an hour later at the restaurant. He was buying a plant for his wife. The convergence of professional and domestic affairs, in which we steal time during our ‘office hours’, are universal.

Our last stop was the Shumi Wine Factory. I was too tired to follow the entire tour around the factory with crutches. So I waited in the garden while Dinda completed the tour. I didn’t miss the wine tasting at the end of the tour (it’s a wine tour!). 

We sat with a stylish young couple. They look Georgians, white with raven hairs, but they speak Russian all the time. Most young Georgians I met are reluctant to speak Russian. When they were shown traditional puri baking in a stone oven—in which the baker had to lean his body and dive inside to stick the dough inside—they said ‘It is like how we made it!’. We discovered they are Azeris. I heard that oil rich Azerbaijan is full of moneyed people, but with vulgar taste. This couple broke just that stereotype.

There was supposedly one more stop for the wine tour. However, it was dark already when we left Shomi and we were tired. So we called it a day and had a bountiful dinner at the Zandarashvilis.

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Day trip from Tbilisi: Jvari, Mtskheta and Gori

We arranged a day trip from Tbilisi. Our main destination is Gori, but we stopped by at the Jvari Church and visited Mtskheta.

The Jvari Church is up on the hill, with views of Mtskheta; and Aragvi and Mtkvari rivers intersecting. It was the only cloudy day we had in Georgia, but I can imagine the landscape under the lovely winter sun. 

I had to struggle again to reach the church from the parking lot with my crutches, climbing the stone stairs. A South Asian boy tourist, also with casted leg and crutches, shared the same struggle. I smiled at him to encourage both of us.

The church was built in the 7th century to house a large wooden cross, erected by King Mirian after his conversion to Christianity by Saint Nino in the 4th century. I saw Besik praying at the altar of one of the saints. I asked to whom he was praying to. He pronounced the name in Georgian and I could not catch the name (my unfamiliarity with Georgian language and Christian deities did not help). He took his smartphone and Google translated his word to English: Saint Nicholas. I asked why he prayed to Saint Nicholas. 

“It is the day,” he answered. 

I thought he had a particular matter, of which under Nick’s patronage. Six decades of Soviet rule failed to replace traditional religious spirituality with communist materialism. ROSCOSMOS still maintains its pre-launch ritual dating back to Soviet time: a ceremonial blessing by Orthodox priests (while NASA’s ritual tradition is to play bridge, a game of mathematical probability).

Mtskheta was the ancient capital of Georgia before Tbilisi. It retains its status as the spiritual capital with its Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. Legend has it that the cathedral was built on the burial site Sidonia, who died in a passion of faith when given Jesus’s crucifixion robe.

The streets leading to the cathedral are full of shops, selling souvenirs and snacks. Beggars gathered around the cathedral, anticipating charity from pilgrims and tourists. Besik tried to cart me by wheelchair, but as in Sighnaghi, the cobblestones are not friendly to people with disability. Resourceful as always, Besik negotiated his way to park near the cathedral (which is reserved for the local and shopkeepers). When we concluded our visit, I didn’t have to walk as far as we came.

On our way to Gori, we passed the refugee housing complex for Gori residents who evacuated the town. Gori was bombed and occupied by Russia for ten days in the 2008 South Ossetian War. Such view was a prelude to our main destination for the day trip: the Stalin Museum.

Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin was a poor Gori boy who rose to the rank of Premier of the Soviet Union. He was the underdog in Lenin’s succession; none of the Bolshevik elites would have thought that a thug could have outmanoeuvred Trotsky the charismatic intellectual as Lenin’s successor (or he came to power exactly because of such assumption—the party elites thought he was more controllable compared to the Napoleonic figure). He defeated Nazi Germany (with the help of the Allied Forces—although Hollywood prefers to portray the Red Army as the sidekick). Under his leadership, Soviet Union was transformed from an agricultural country to the space age pioneer and a nuclear superpower (with the help of Soviet scientific prowess, foreign intelligence which successfully stole American researches, and the expendable workforce of political prisoners and criminals in the gulags).

Unfortunately, all the Museum exhibits are only narrated in Georgian and Russian. However, I can still tell that the curation is very partisan; glorifying Stalin as the Man. I looked at young Stalin’s photograph. He was a handsome boy with his raven hair, beards and moustache (I used his hairstyle as reference and showed it to Winda the hairstylist)

“Ideas are far more powerful than guns. We don’t let our people have guns. Why should we let them have ideas?” Stalin’s ultimate maxim.

Stalin is the archetype of a Machiavellist leader. The Prince is pale compared to the Premier. Stalinism was the creme de la creme of dictatorship. He was the most powerful man on earth. Perhaps no one runs a totalitarian regime better than Stalin did (or maybe Xi has surpassed him now with the help of data mining technologies?). He ruthlessly purged his rivals in cunning and brutal ways. He did not just kill. He erased people from history. Before there was Photoshop, his regime altered historical records—photographs and printed materials.

My visit to Stalin Museum was not a homage to him, but to George Orwell. In Animal Farm he prophesied how communism and the Soviet Union would implode—that the party elites and members would become the new ruling class. His opus 1984 warned the dangers of Stalinism (and other forms of totalitarian government) when many the British intellectuals were Russophiles, idolising and idealising Stalin, in post-World War II. The Orwellian terms “Thoughtcrime”; “Newspeak”; “Doublethink”; and “One Minute Hate” represent the tools for systematic policing of thoughts: surveillance and censorship; simplification of language; cognitive dissonance; and us-and-them fear-mongering.

Orwell, to me, is  the role model of the Man: a man of words and a man of action. He wrote with such beauty, brevity and clarity, fusing literature with politics (see Why I Write). He lived through poverty and fought with the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. Documented his experience and insights with haunting unsentimental proses devoid of proletarian romanticism or fairy tale heroism—as well as socially and historically accurate (Down and Out in Paris and London and Homage to Catalonia).

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Departure

I wanted to cut the Georgian trip short when I broke my ankle. To just give in to the pain and hassle of exploring with handicapped mobility. I am glad that I didn’t. Instead we did what is required in life: we adapted. 

No plan left unchanged. We revised our itineraries, which always happened in our previous travels. We had to forfeit Vardzia, Davit Gareja, Borjomi, and the steam baths of Tbilisi. However, the journey was meaningful  because we were capable of letting go. I am grateful that I can fall back on my travelling companion. She carried me all the way—pushed the wheelchair, carried our baggages, waited patiently.

Besik our Superhost friend is a real character.  In his previous life, he’s been a traditional dancer for Georgian cultural missions and MMA fighter. Lived his childhood in the post Soviet blackout era, he had to carry a gun for self defence when he was 8 year old (his favourite was Browning High Power, another demonstration of his good taste). 

A semi-professional DJ and an amateur snowboarder, Besik left his corporate career in 2016 years ago to start his own hospitality business. His flats are a designer’s love in central Tbilisi (all of his Airbnb properties are designed by him, a self taught interior designer).  He is well connected in Tbilisi. His recommendations are top notch. 

Besik told me that the Georgian government incentivises the development of tourism business outside Tbilisi. As the former Soviet Riviera, tourism industry supports much of the Georgian economy. Therefore, he and his business partners are applying for government backed loan in establishing a ski resort in Kazbegi. He is a hospitality and real estate entrepreneur.

We can see Besik works hard to run his business. He drives his guests, deals with the contractors renovating his, does the accounts, etc. However, he claims life in Tbilisi is easy. 

“It’s a metropolis but people know each other,” he said.  

Perhaps the small population of Tbilisi allows urban Georgians to retains the sense of communities which is usually lost in dense crowded cities. 

I don’t know if such ease is the norm for Tbilisians or Georgians in general, considering Besik owns several properties.  However, we can feel that Tbilisi as the country’s commerce centre is not a busy city.  Tbilisi makes room and time for art and culture. Maybe, the Soviet heritage helped shape the good taste of Tbilisians by mitigating consumerist impulses of the now capitalist society. That and a long history of Georgian culture. 

Kristo our guide from Culinary Streets said that Georgians are lazy. Maybe, but I know Europeans  no longer see workaholic culture as a virtue. Busy is not always productive. There is no point of working yourself to death when you work to make a living. Trading your social engagements, alienating yourself from human connections, just to accumulate more wealth is not a working approach to a good life. However, I know that people who can say that usually, if not always, have sufficient financial groundings. Freedom, after all, has a price tag.

Besik is the manifestation of Georgian hospitality, Soviet grit, Millennial YOLO, and human kindness.  We secretly gave him the nickname “Besik-not-basic.” Honouring him as the antithesis of basic bro.

Besik drove us to the airport. On our way, he told us his dream travel destination is Bali. I told him, without any nationalistic bias, that Bali is an excellent choice. Bali would be exotic for him (and it’s still cheaper than Tbilisi). Bali can be a party island or a cultural/spiritual pilgrimage, or both. I’d be happy to give him recommendations and tips. We’d even offer to meet up there if our travel schedule permits (that’s how much we like Besik).

He said he plans to go only with his wife and friends in 2020. I said just drop me an email, a Whatsapp message, or Instagram DM when you do. None of us had any idea that 2019 was the last year of global travel as we know it.

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