Back to Life

Perhaps it is time to revive the blog.
Since we last left off, I took a boat across the Black Sea and passed several months in the South Caucasus (Georgia, Armenia and Nagorno Karabakh). I have many many stories from the period of time, but those will come later.

Now I am in Abkhazia. It is a country... kind of. Russia, Nicaragua, Venezuela and a Pacific Island nation or two recognize it, but for the rest of the world it is part of Georgian sovereign territory.

I will let you wikipedia the Georgian Abkhaz war and the Georgian civil war because I do not have time to give the required history lesson.

The story starts in Zugdidi, the capital of the Samegrelo region of Georgia. I was planning on meeting a friend of a friend in the town to get a place to sleep for the night, but when I called him at 10:00 pm he was still on the road from Tbilisi. Without a place to sleep, I decided to bike the 10 km to the "border" (ceasefire) line on the Inguri river to find a police or military post to camp. I only now realize how much faith I have in Georgian hospitality and kindness, especially of their police.

I was stopped at a little after 11:00 pm by the two officers manning the checkpoint. Within moments, they had assembled a little feast and I was playing guitar and singing. They called another police post and had them listen to me on speaker phone. I asked them if I could camp, and they thought for a second. They said, "no," and insisted that I sleep in the police post, but made me set up my bivy sack (a tent-like object) next to the post. I was confused for a moment, until Zviad explained to me that it was not allowed to have someone sleep in the station so they wanted it to look like I was sleeping outside. Fair enough. That night and the next morning, I had some really moving conversation with the two officers (all in Russian). They were both in their 30's and were both refugees from Abkhazia. (IMPORTANT DEMOGRAPHIC POINT: at the beginning of the conflict Georgians were the largest ethnic group in Abkhazia at about 45% of the population and Abkhaz were only 17%). Zviad took several long looks at my entry permit from the Abkhaz Ministry of Foreign affairs and seemed lost deep in thought. I woke early that morning to Andrey's snoring and found him sleeping on the cot next to me cradling his automatic rifle.

Thy bid me good luck and said they would see me in a week. I felt very sad that I could not tell them the truth: I would not be returning to Georgia from Abkhazia. I had a Russia visa and intended to violate Georgian territorial integrity and cross to Russia. I felt strange as I looked back toward Georgia (proper that is). I might never be allowed to return without facing a short prison sentence (probably only a few days) or pay a major fine. Thankfully though, in the 8 hours I spent with the police, I think they never took down my passport information (which is the point of the checkpoint), so there may not be any proof of my entry to Abkhazia...

Anyhow, the last thing Zviad called out to me was to "write the truth," about Abkhazia (I had let them know that I was writing a bit about the Caucasus).Indeed in many respects it does seem that the Georgians have many points on their side. They were the largest ethnic group, the Abkhaz violated the initial ceasefire, the Abkhaz only won militarily because of Russian backing (and to small extent north Caucasian support including that of future number-one wanted man in Russia, the Chechen leader Shamil Basayev), and the final stages of the conflict involved the large scale ethnic cleansing of Georgians from the territory.

I crossed from a modern, westernizing, safe, relatively corruption free, forward looking Georgia to a corrupt, crime ridden (every police officer and soldier I met told me that I could not leave my things for a second or it they would be stolen), and economically depressed Abkhazia still standing much in ruin.

But the hospitality was much the same.

After about an hour biking through the ruins of the semi-tropical Gali region, I was stopped by some paramilitary forces trying to repair their broken Lada (THE soviet car). They approached me, aggressively at first, but after about 30 minutes of talking, smiling and consciously trying to charm them, I had three (enormous) glassed of wine in my stomach and was holding one of their AK-47s. On command, I was forced to shoot up an unfortunate tree.


After talking with the soldiers for a while, I decided to leave. The last thing they told me was to "write the truth" about Abkhazia. This line really struck me. I heard it twice in one days from enemies. A biked off a couple of km, too drunk to get much further, found an abandoned, bullet-scarred house and fell asleep for several hours. When I awoke, I was still pondering that line.

I entered Sukhumi to find it over-run with Russian tourists. It is quite funny that it feels adventurous to be here as a westerner, but Russians take their families here on beach vacations.

Couchsurfed with a really nice Russian couple (the only people in all of Abkhazia on couchsurfing). I helped with large scale brewing operation and was rewarded with a night of Abkhazian drinking that truly felt identical to a Georgian one. The alcohols are the same: wine, cha-cha and beer. The structure is the same: one tamada (toastmaster) who leads the process. And even the toasts were almost identical: first to god, then to family, then to our great guest, etc, etc. Not to mention that Abkhaz food is, well, Georgian food with a little Russian food (and I don't think Abkhaz can take credit for the inventions of these dishes since their names, even in Abkhaz language, are all Georgian words.) At one moment I raised my glass and began with a loud "Ga..." and, quickly realizing that my habit of using the Georgian word for "cheers" (Gamarjos) could serious get me in trouble, I quickly recovered with a sloppy Russian "Nazdorovya!"

The Tamada invites you for a drink:


When I say that Caucasians make you drink, people often think I am not being literal. But I am... and yes that is a real gun. The dialogue accompanying this, "Don't worry, I took the clip out, she won't shoot you, this isn't Ossetia!":



Anyway, it is a beautiful country and on bike I have been stopped many times by curious Abkhaz, Armenians (the second largest ethnic group) and Russians who want to ask me what I am doing and wish me luck. One thing that does seem a bit strange is that almost every single one of the Russians and Abkhaz men ask me if I am "doping"- a question I have never been asked before and often ask about my sex life during 6 months of biking (not in conservative Georgia any more...). And the cycling has been great, except when you have to pull over for a column of Russian "peacekeeper" tanks or when you are on a road that has suffered artillery damage and almost two decades later it still isn't repaired. Oh and everyone jokes that I am a spy... but my host the other night confess that he was sure I was, but (as he waved his pistol in the air) he said he believed I was a good man and that was all that mattered.

Spot the soviet relic:



And the road ahead (actually the road to the recently captured upper Kodori Gorge):


Best,
James