Wednesday, 18 October 2017

 

Start: Kutaisi (way too early)

Arrival: Tbilisi (quite late)

Total: 300 km

 

On which I discovered

 

the Paris of the Caucasus

the burial place of a mighty Georgian king

and a cave dedicated to one of my favourite Greek gods

 

 

 

 

The next morning, Irakli woke me up. Groggily, I looked at the clock: it was way before 7 am. He must be kidding. I'm decidedly not a morning person and this was after all supposed to be a holiday. Or was it?

 

 

"I thought you wanted to see some sights," Irakli asked innocently. In the middle of the night? Ah well, when in Rome... The weather outside promised to be warm and sunny, so why not. We headed out into the street. With about 150,000 inhabitants, Kutaisi is the third largest city in Georgia, after the capital Tbilisi and the seaside port Batumi. Located on the Rioni River, it has (to my Northern eyes at least) a distinct Mediterranean feel. I love the way the picturesque white houses and dark trees nestle into the hills, all rounded off by a blue sky and the warm ochre tone of the sandstone buildings. This early in the morning, there were very few people around. I watched the delivery men unhaul new provisions to the closed shops and restaurants and was reminded of the old French song: Il est cinq heures, Paris s'éveille. I love these Romantic, early-morning feelings, maybe because I do not get them too often. I shouldn't be such a sleepyhead.

 

 

In Georgian, Kutaisi has the epithet Vardebis kalaki, the City of Roses. If this doesn't sound like a Valyrian town straight out of Game of Thrones, then I don't know what does.

 

Walking on, I realised that Kutaisi reminded me of Paris in other aspects too. The elegant 19th century mansions along the cobblestoned streets would not be amiss in a posh inner-city district of the French capital. Have I mentioned that I had fallen in love with Tbilisi a few days ago? Well, I definitely could imagine myself living in Kutaisi too. "The city is very popular with Russians," Irakli explained. Apparently, a lot of Russians like to buy property here, just like they do in Paris, London or Berlin. No wonder, because the city is not only beautiful and well-kept, but also sports a charming mix of old and new, of sumptuous theatres and museums and a large green park next to quiet residential streets and leafy, hilly outskirts.

 

We crossed a bridge over the river Rioni. Apparently the town had been ravaged by a rain surge and heavy floods only yesterday, but today, the river was tamely gurgling along in its bed. Large chunks of ice floes felt oddly out of place on this crisp but pleasant autumn morning. Irakli motioned for me to get closer to the railing. "Next to the boy." Only then did I notice the statue perched on the railing, playfully holding two hats in its skinny hands. I obligingly stepped under the hat and grinned. Did I look tired in that picture! But there were so many exciting little gems to discover on our walk that I didn't notice too much at the time. Besides, in a bit more than half a day I would be up in the air, on my way back to Luxembourg, so I might as well make the most of my time here.

 

We walked for about an hour before heading back to the hotel for breakfast. On top of a pleasant buffet, the guests could order hot food at the table. Happy to enjoy the perks of having a local by my side, I let Irakli order the coffee. Then he turned to me: "How do you like your eggs? Omelette, hard boiled, soft?" "Sunny side up," I declared cheerfully. When I saw the question mark on his face, I added: "You know, like an omelette, but with the white to the side and the yolk in the middle. ... Yajtsa na sontze?", [eggs on the sun] I translated, not very successfully, into pidgin-Russian. I refrained from adding zerkala yitso [looking-glass egg], which would be the direct translation from Luxembourgish, because I guessed it wouldn't really be helpful. Today I know that they are actually called glasunja in Russian, with the Russian word for eye, glas, in it, so I fully understand Irakli's confusion. The waitress, who impassively listened to our conversation, finally put a word in: "Fried eggs, two or three?" "One," I peeped, and so the question was settled.

 

 

 

"Whereto now?", I asked, when we hauled my luggage into the car. "Gelati Monastery," Irakli said, and started the motor.

 

This monastery with the tantalising Italian-icecream ring to it is a UNESCO World heritage site lying in the hills just outside the city of Kutaisi. Built in the early 12th century by king David IV, it quickly became a centre of culture and learning in the country and helped usher Georgia into its Golden Age. But when Irakli parked the car in the parking lot in front of the entrance gate, I had never even heard the name of the place. I must admit that mediaeval Caucasian history was not my forte. Now of course I know a lot more about Queen Tamar and her dashing Alan prince-consort David Soslan. The late 12th century was, in Georgia as in Western Europe, a time that to this day inspires storytellers to weave their flowery tales.

 

We walked across the grass-bordered stone-paved way towards the sturdy walls of the old monastery complex. Right, the building in front of us was an Orthodox church. I reached for the scarf around my neck and slung it across my head. Then I glanced down at my hips. I knew my jeans wouldn't do. For some reason, Orthodox custom looks unfavourably upon trouser-clad female legs, even though they are much more thoroughly hidden from any human gaze than under a lofty, flowing dress. But I will not argue with tradition, at least not in a place where I am only a guest. So I reached into the basket placed next to the entrance and grabbed one of the large black cloths that had been put there for unprepared tourists such as myself. I swung the textile around my hips and fixed it with a knot. Confident that no god in this world or the next would care whether I was draped in ten layers or just the garment bestowed on me at birth and would instead look straight into my soul, I tried to wear my makeshift outfit with as much natural grace as possible.

 

The interior of the monastery buildings was stunning. The lower walls were cast in shadows, but high upon my head the large domed roof was bathed in sunlight streaming in from its manyfold windows. The deep blue and golden murals shone and sparkled with a vigour that belied its old age. Everywhere around me, bright paintings of saints stood in stark contrast to the quiet sobriety of the sandstone masonry, like precious spices highlighting a simple dish. I was entranced.

 

When I had seen my fill inside the church, Irakli asked one of the monks to show us around and explain the history of the place. Unfortunately, our guide spoke only Georgian and Russian, so Irakli acted as translator. "If he speaks real slowly, I might understand," I said, with unshaken faith in my linguistic capabilities.

 

The first historical explanation lasted about two minutes, verging on two centuries. It was delivered in a (to me) very fast, low voice and was followed by a respectful silence, probably to give me time to catch the meaning of the lecture. I thought hard for about half a minute, then turned to Irakli: "Sorry, what did he say?"

 

This procedure was repeated several times. We climbed up to the pretty little chapel inside the tower of Saint Nicolas, explored the cool vaults of the lower parts of the monastery to discover the large slabs covering the tomb of David IV the Builder, who had founded the monastery, and the gate of Ganja next to it. "This tomb shows how tall the king was," our guide explained. "Almost two meters tall, huge for that epoch." I honestly don't remember if the guide really said this, if Irakli translated it this way or if my Russian-intoxicated brain interpreted the story wrongly, but this seemed to be the gist of it: Large tomb - large man - great king. It didn't really make too much sense, or maybe it was just meant in a figurative way, which of course would make perfect sense. Or I just got everything completely wrong, which is probably the most likely explanation. Be this as it may, the heavy iron-cast gate behind the tomb caught my eye and my heart leaped with joy: this battered, half-destroyed door was old, and it was covered in a mysterious, tantalising script, that looked like Arabic. Unfortunately we were not allowed to get really close, but our guide explained that the gate of Ganja was a trophy that the king of Georgia had brought with him when he had conquered the neighbouring province of Ganja in today's Azerbaijan. So the script was, indeed, Arabic. This was so interesting.

 

Next, we walked across the lawn to an adjacent building. Inside was a large, clear room. I immediately liked it. Something in this quiet, tall room spoke to me. "This is the library of the monastery," the guide explained in Russian. When king David built the monastery, he had the ambition to bring culture and knowledge to Georgia. For this, he created the ideal conditions for learning and study and attracted many studious men from all over the Christian world to Gelati. Thus the Academy grew and within a few decades, its reputation as a centre for learning and knowledge was established. Because of the learning of these men, the country of Georgia prospered and flourished in what is now known as the Golden Age." Yes, he said all this (or words to that effect) in Russian - and I understood it! Which goes to show, if the topic of the conversation is about things that are dear to your heart, you are much more likely to understand what is said. For the rest of the tour, I was more or less able to follow the explanations. Finally, we visited an excavation which showed the outline of the old kitchen, and then we returned to the main church. A wonderful, informative hour, and excellent practice for my Russian studies!

 

 

 

Back in the car, I looked at my watch. It was around noon. Time had flown by. But Irakli had time for one more tourist attraction: the cave of Prometheus. This sounded exciting. I love to visit caves, and so I was particularly happy that Irakli had chosen to show me this site. Also, Prometheus is one of my favourite Greek gods: he is said to be creative and imaginative, irreverent of rules and with a penchant to piss off the powers that be. Contrary to the other gods' decision, he gave the fire to mankind and thus kickstarted philosophy and technology. As a punishment, he was chained to a rock at the end of the world (that is, Gibraltar) and every day, an eagle picked out his liver only for it to grow back overnight. Hercules, one of my favourite demigods, finally put an end to this torture and, again very much against the wishes of the other gods, freed Prometheus. There is much to be learnt from such a story.

 

Why this Greek god would have a cave in the mountains of Georgia was beyond me though. I pondered this, while we walked toward the visitors' centre. Suddenly, Irakli stopped. "Do you like this?" He plucked an orange-yellow fruit from a tree along the way. I curiously eyed the large, round thing. It looked like a strange cross between an apple and a tomato. "I've never seen this fruit." Of course I wanted to try it. It was sweet and juicy and, straight from the tree, a delight to eat. I was dead chuffed. A new, exotic discovery. When I told my sister about it a few days later in Luxembourg, she looked at me deadpan: "That's a kaki. You can buy them in the local supermarket here." Seriously? I had never noticed them. But that didn't make it any less exotic for me. Kaki, or persimmon as it seems to be called in English, will always be a Georgian fruit for me, to be relished outside the entrance to the cave of Prometheus.

 

"I will wait for you here," Irakli told me when I purchased the entrance ticket. He probably had a lot of work to do, organising car transfers and answering customer queries. I felt a bit bad that I had taken up so much of his time. While he took a walk outside, working on the phone, I joined a group of English-speaking tourists and our guide. Down and down we went on a seemingly endless steel-grilled staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, we were surrounded by an enchantingly quiet forest.

 

The guide explained that the cave had been open to the public since 2011. Around this time, the cave was renamed Prometheus' cave, in honour of the Greek god who had been chained to the rocks in this area and tortured by a raven. I was puzzled. Wasn't the bloke supposed to have been tortured at the other end of Europe, in Southern Spain? But I guess it makes as much sense for a Greek deity to be banned to the Eastern confines of the ancient world as to the Western. And if you have your liver gnashed daily by a bird of prey, you probably don't care too much about compass points.

 

So we entered the cave. It was 11 km long, of which 1 kilometer was open to the public. We walked through tight squeeze-throughs and cavernous halls, enjoying the marvellously designed play of light on the glistening rocks. What a great highlight at the end of my holiday!

 

 

 

After the tour, we returned to the hotel were we had parked the second car. Time for me to start working. "Just don't drive too fast," I begged Irakli. I really didn't want to lose sight of him. Whatever had made me think that I could drive an SUV half across an unknown country while tailing another car? "Don't worry," said Irakli, which, in my experience, is exactly the time when you should start worrying. But there was no time for such thoughts. We started our cars and were on road.

 

The journey from Kutaisi to Tbilisi is mostly a curvy, one-lane-to-each-side, over-bridges, through-one-way-tunnels kind of affair. With plenty of adventurous oncoming traffic. A bit like a trip along Croatia's coastline, which I had enjoyed a lot a few years before. But back then I hadn't had to follow on the heels of a Georgian who drove cars for a living.

 

"When I pass, you have to pass too," Irakli explained at the first pitstop. "Otherwise it will take you forever until you pluck up the courage to pass." "I never pass another car, unless there's a passing lane," I argued, "what if there's an oncoming car?" "I will stay in the left lane until you have passed," he calmly promised. I looked at him, and I didn't doubt his word for a second. A man who had your back. Or, in this case, your front. Or whatever.

 

To make a long roadtrip short, we managed not to lose sight of each other all the way back to Tbilisi, where we wove our way through the most chaotic evening rush-hour traffic. "Don't leave any space between our two cars," Irakli had insisted. "If you do, another car will squeeze in. Mercilessly." Right. I shouldn't leave any safety distance between two cars doing up to 90 kilometers an hour. On a road that I did not know. What an excellent opportunity to crash two more of his cars in one fell swoop.

 

The no-space rule proved correct. Back in Tbilisi, the tiniest safety distance was mercilessly filled by a passing or incoming car. I was blindsided twice, before I got the knack of it. By the time we reached the downtown office, I was having the best time of my life. This was so much fun. If they ever fired me at the Literary Archives, I would apply as a transfer driver in a rental agency. I had turned one hobby into a job - writing - so why not a second one too.

 

We arrived back in Tbilisi in the late evening. I prepared to say good-bye, but Irakli just wanted to know when my plane was taking off. "At three in the morning," I said. He nodded. "I have to work now," he said, "let's meet at two a.m. and I will bring you to the airport."