A memorandum to Georgia

Please not that the following lines are highly personal and that they may or may not represent the whole truth. However, they do represent a truth, my truth. A truth that had partially been written during the onset of a bacterial illness and in the cold and dark month of February.

First of all, I believe a short introduction would be necessary. Some wider context is needed for you, the reader, to understand where I am and what is going on. After my frustrating months in Central Asia, may they be as instructive as they have been, I decided to head back to Georgia to visit my friends, following an emotional sickness, eat food without meat and possibly find a job here. I had taken matters into my own hand, had freed myself of most of my worldly possessions and had set my mind on trying something new for myself. It turned out to be more difficult than anticipated.

But let’s not dive too deep into these organizational matters, for they are quite boring and serve no greater purpose. It suffices to say that I moved to Kutaisi, following my intuition and the advice of a foreign friend who has settled here and seemingly adores the city. Right from the start I got in touch with a young local couple owning a teaching-center, start-up palace and who asked me straight-away if I wanted to give English lessons. I agreed. Two or three month passed without any greater evolution of my working and overall situation. I have a flat by myself, yet no one to share it with. I had the outlook for acquiring a teaching position with no fixed program, allowing me to freely teach as I see fit. I have some financial reserves and no immediate pressure to actively seek employment. I did watch a few extraordinary films, all-time classics and some that are advisable for all to watch. I read a few books.

Almost every book is based on violence. Luckily the English teaching one is peaceful.

View from my former flat.

The months passed. I witnessed the Georgian parliamentary elections. I saw the former president Mikhail Saakashvili return from his Ukrainian exile (just in time, I’d say). Misha returned and so did the snow in Rustavi. I experienced public transportation in Georgia. I followed Georgian news on the war in Ukraine. I observed the everyday Georgian life, the routine. I mused about the fascinatingly slowness at which everything and everybody moved, not taking into consideration the drunk drivers all over this country, who cannot wait to die in a tragic accident. And all the suicidal Glovo bikes who face the traffic jams of Tbilisi with a stern fanaticism, proudly carrying the banner of exploition into their glorious death. Banzai!

I remember Georgia from seven years ago, when I fresh came from high school into this promising Caucasian state that was still forgotten by most of the world. The overall infrastructure and life standards seemed to be increasing slowly but steadily. People were friendly, hospitable, exceedingly interested in meeting and talking to European strangers.

Of course, I am aware that my situation was an altogether different one. I may have had this veil of naivety, which shielded of a great number of uncomfortable truths, Well, it has been lifted. I see things clearly now. And I am bitterly disappointed.

I will satisfy myself with only one concrete example: politics. You think that politics are boring? Especially this dull process of going to the voting booth and give your voice to somebody? Fear not, in Georgia it pays off! Upon voting for the right party, the Qartuli Otsneba, in short Qotsi (note that this is awfully close to the German words “kotzen”, which means to throw up) you will receive 20 Lari and/or a sack of delicious potatoes. Yes, you may suffer from four years of hardship and an ever increasing slithering towards a pro-Russian dictatorship, but behold! you will eat well for one week.
These are the voters, who happily give their voice and receive something in return. Others, especially state workers, were forced to vote for the ruling party (in power since 2012) under the threat of losing their jobs.
Of course, in the end all of this pressure is hardly worth the effort, as the elections were rigged anyway and a majority of the people did vote for Qotsi, despite the obvious fact, that the leading politicians work on their own, personal agenda. It’s disappointing, that any reasonable being would vote for a political party that is so openly corruptible.

I realise that I sound harsh and unfair. However, it becomes clear to me that Georgia is moving away from being truly European. Not the individual people, certainly not my close friends here, who I adore more than anybody else, but the whole dirty edifice as a whole. The war in Ukraine (yes, it’s called a war, Putin, you sad, empty cunt!) is the famous drop that was one too many. It’s a disgusting display of sheer power whoring, of reckless lying and manipulating, coupled with a creeping hollowing of the free and concerned public opinion.
The valiant, empathetic Georgian people rose up and demanded their government for immediate support for the harassed, bleeding Ukrainian defenders. The political leadership answered unanimously – with silence. Well, okay, with a small outcry, condemning Russia’s move. But did any actions follow?
( a bit of a badly structured paragraph, I might rephrase it a later stage )

Slava Ukrainiy!

When I was on my 20-hours bus ride through Turkey, I had a lot of time to reflect on what lays ahead. When I first lived here I was in love and its magic made me oblivious to certain aspects of the unpleasant reality; where there was wonder, love and excitement, now sadness reigns. I have become anxious, fearing that I might be ran over by a drunk Georgian driver at any time. Or mistaken as a Russian and injured for this reason. I feel disillusioned. I had hugged Georgia and its mode-de-vie, but the embrace has been loosened and instead of the warm and affectionate feeling an awkward silence imposed itself. There’s a dwelling anger in my chest.
Therefore, it appears evident that my time here in this country comes to a close. I resolve to leave ere summer, with no mind to buying a return ticket.

Before closing this chapter I must, however, bring a small memory back to my mind. It was on my excursion to Tkibuli (ტყიბული) that I met some excellent Georgians in a restaurant. I join their drinking and feasting party. Despite the war in Russia and their ever-increasing hatred towards the Russian language, they conversed with me, therefore overcoming their unease, anger and sadness for the sake of communication: an altogether smart and wise approach. We enjoyed our reciprocal company. Upon hearing that I was going to leave Georgia one man asked me not to forget them.

That was all he demanded. To remember that scene. The true identity of one part of Georgia. A welcoming, warm, hospitable and out-goinf one. One that overcomes problems, personal and the ones that are a produce of society and the environment. And I am happy for this memory and for many, many more.

But I have made up my mind about leaving.

Off, I will go, into the west.

Georgia on my mind ✌

Some thoughts on Kyrgyzstan and a silly anecdote.

Krgyzstan is a true Kaputnik-State. Which means that it works, despite the fact that absolutely nothing is meant to function. You get the idea immediately within the first 5 minutes in the country: Grammatical errors in the official airport signs, no means of renting cars, an absence of busses and the likliness that your flight will be delayed, because a cow decided to nap on the runway. Just like they do on every other road.

Can you spot the mistake?

Maybe the latter is exaggerated. It is, however, very surprising that 30 years after declaring its independence and controling vast mineral ressources, Kyrgyzstan would still not be able to run a few buslines – or marshrutka (vans) throughout some part of the most central regions. The only train line that does exists, apparently runs only once every week!

Even this thing is able to conquer the mountain. Why not a bloody bus?

Every official state worker seems to be corruptible. Take a random street cop for example: instead of writing a fine for speeding for 500 som (around 5€), he gladly and woolfishly accepts 200 som that go straight into his own pockets. The higher the rank, the higher the bribes get.

Unsurprisingly, this treacherous nature that is so visibly displayed by the important people of Kyrgyzstan, is imitated by its other inhabitants. I have the impression that almost each and every (male) citizen will try to cheat you of your money. Deals that are agreed on, can easily be altered to the locals wishes, desires and, of course, to the tourists/travelers growing frustration.

At one point… something snaps within the tourists troubled, oxygen-deprived and most oftenly over-heated brain. And then the haggling starts. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Bargain for every cent/som as if your life depended on it. Do not trust any of the prices.

It so happened that, while staying in Osh for a few days, me and one of the 4 Israelian guys staying in the same hostel, went to buy some Coke. The prices on the markets were close to 60 som for 1.5 Liters (for warm and filthy Coke), whereas the one we found in a real shop was tagged at the dastard price of 80 som. So we haggled.

“80 som? That’s prosta outrageous! Never in my life have we found anything this inhumane and despicable. Have you seen the prices on the market, have you? This is already only barely acceptable, but 80… 80 som? I need this money to feed my poor, gray donkey a little bit of grass that he so deserves on his old days. He’s already limbing on his two hind legs, but he wants to go back to his mountain village to see his donkey wife and donkey children before the inevitable happens, yalla.”

We managed to push the prices by 5 som. Not great, not terrible. But when trying to pay, we ran into some serious issues: we did not have enough coins. We were going through our combined wallets and pockets and found only about 70 or so som. That, plus about 10.000 more, but only in big bills and we had already entered a stage of stingy deception that there was was no turning back. In the end, we got it our way and, though embarrassing as it was, we achieved a little discount.

On that day we truly understood some of the Kyrgyz mentality. All thanks to a completely rotten government.

The Isrealian desert rat that can eat an infinite amount of pasta.

The mashed mess the convolutions of my brain have come up with

Well, certainly I’ve arrived here in this amazing and intriguing Kyrgyzstan only a short while ago and I what might have seen is (hopefully) less than the outer layer of all the curiosities this country has to offer. Yet it would appear that all of this is already more than enough for my brain to handle, so that it needs to try and find a way to sort and stock this input somewhere. Is it possible that I find it harder to cope with the amount of input than a few years ago? Or is it just that Kyrgyzstan is so much more difficult to understand as an outsider? However exhausting living in Berlin or in Luxembourg may have been (mostly it had been really relaxing), nothing could have prepared me for the first week here. Really not at all. Because all these manifold impressions need to be processed here and now. This process needs to take place in this jeep that’s speeding over horribly dusty roads. You see, I am far from being in a calm place where I can think and meditate. It has to happen now.

I close my eyes and a million different impressions appear before my inner eye. As if on an epic dose of LSD my mind dislodges chronologically well ordered information into a caleidoscopesque fashion. Colours become more intensive, lights flicker and randomly vary in brightness, while the shapes of buildings, landscapes and peoples’ faces come into a renewed existence – however personal and fictional they have become by now. My imagination begins to kick in and melts the very essence of existence.

Imagine this shape at night time contrasting the starry, starry night sky

A massive and dark mountain range draws nearer at an almost incredible speed. Though it approaches, its shape remains unchanged, no further details become distinguishable on the huge silhouette. Only the overhead sky changes in colour: from an intensive, cloudless light blue that you might find on a warm, midday summer day over the vast expanses of the ocean, to the dark blue colour of an infinitely beautiful sapphire starry night. The stars shine brighter with every passing second and takes on the well-known and familiar structure of our Milky Way. They dance around in the hot evening heat, but as I lean forward to regard them from a little closer, the dance becomes distinguishable as the regular up and down of reflections on the Ysyk-Kul lake. I take a deep breath as I watch the wavy surface of this mountain lake and smell its salty water.

The taste then instantly translates into pictures of the black salt mine deep within the dry mountain ranges of the Naryn region. Let’s follow this guided tour through the former mine for a while – it definitely is a little absurd, but no reason for alarm. What was once an extremely lucrative mine (its salt was equally as worthy as gold) has now been transformed into a most extravagant sanatorium. As if played at 2x the normal speed, we move through the шахты, the mine shafts, and explore its interiors. What a calm and quite place without even the most remote life form, as none can flourish in this deadly, salty atmosphere; completely devoid of water.

The tour comes to an end and I leave behind the magnificient, though industrial, carvings on the walls. The exit fills the empty air with warmth and dust. The blinding light falls into my eyes and I blink involuntarily.

Upon opening them again, the salt has disappeared and in his stead I find a loud and busy bazar/market. I stop short. A sheer, never-ending flood of Kyrgyz people flow by. Some are old, others young. Few have money, most work hard to earn a days living. In their eyes I can see stress and calm. Together they have lived a million years; years of stability, perspective, wealth, development and aspirations. However, most of this combined life span was spent in a chaotic mess. The crowd comes to a standstill. Their faces remain visible. Their eyes speak of million stories, yet their mouth stay shut. Their accounts are not audible. Low tunes of a melchanolic guitar play the music of loss… dust in the wind. The sunlight fades, its last sunrays illuminate the contrast in their tanned faces while a nasty, dirty smell fills the air. As if in a dustbowl, my tongue is covered in a sand-like substance.

The processing comes to an abrupt halt. I open my eyes for real. Only thick clouds of dust remain that have been unearthed by cars going over the weathered roads. I look out of the open window and above streches a great starry firmament. They will lead us safely to our next destination. We will soon arrive in our longed-for post-Soviet and former uranium mine of Min-Kush.

Soon we will have arrived. The car jerks heavily as it hits another hole in the road and I dive deep into a deep slumber.

Good night, beloved celestial companions! I shall welcome you into my dreams and have you shine over all the mysterious and magical places that still await me.