Kim Jong Illin'

The highlight of the night was definitely when Colonel Qadaffi and I were able to convince two shop owners that we were in fact the leaders of our respective countries.

Kazbegi

Mountain villages in the Caucasus are, if anything, a challenge to get to. In this region, reaching your destination is considered a success. Single track dirt roads are the norm. They hug cliffs, take you around wicked hairpin turns, and skirt streams. Timid drivers need not apply.

The road to Kazbegi is true to form. It rises north out of Tbilisi, sauntering through the foothills past rivers and shepherds herding sheep. You think to yourself, “This ain’t so bad. Maybe I could stop off at one of those kebab shops we keep passing. Driver!” Instead, I was stuck with sausages falling on my head from the storage rack above. I rectified the situation and then after a while of no aerial bombardment, the jolly guy sitting next to me remarked, “It looks like the sausages have fallen asleep.”

In an instant, the minibus starts its grueling ascent up over the pass. It starts with hairpin after hairpin as the road emerges from the tree line. You’re still travelling on asphalt at this point, but that is soon to end because the ski resort of Gudauri is fast approaching, at which point the pavement stops. Rumour is it that the president has a villa there and, therefore, has no reason to travel any further.

It is after the ski resort that things get remarkable. It isn’t snowing but there is a wall of snow as high as the minibus on either side of you. The road continues up to the pas, winding its way through a series of tunnels that I can only compare to the old tunnels of the railway grade above my parents’ house. Water drips from the ceiling, there are puddles and potholes everywhere, and it is pitch black!

Your escape from the tunnels leads you into a long valley that eventually ends in Kazbegi. The road is again asphalt and the scenery is spectacular.

Kazbegi itself is wedged in a rather narrow valley. One one side you have giant mountains, on the other side you have the granddaddy of them all: Mt. Kazbegi, which stands at some 5,000+ metres. Highlights in the city include going up yet another dirt road to a church that is perched on top of a hill overlooking the town and imagining what it would be like to continue further up the road to Russia. As fun as that would be, I think I’ll just leave it up to my imagination.

Protest Pictures

Saakashvili is a marked man.

The huts in a row.

The sign speaks for itself. This is in front of parliament.

Opposition party supporters. They gave me some tea so I took a picture with the promise to announce their cause to the world.

I believe that gesture was in response to the question "What do you think of Saakashvili?"

Huts sponsored by GeoCell

Street Protests – Georgian Style

Please note that this information is woefully out of date. Pretend, for a few minutes, that you are back in April 2009.

 

It’s the middle of what is now affectionately called “Protest Season” - a time of year when the opposition get together to protest maligned president Mikhail Saakashvili. It has been going on for so long that it become about as predictable as the winter flu. And it seems to be treated like one: it shows up, affects some people, and then eventually goes away.

The opposition has good reason to protest. It claims that the president has done nothing for the Georgian economy, he plunged the country into a war it could not win, and is generally not fit to lead a country. There was another guy, who recently descended from power. that fit the same mould. In fact, there is a street named after him in Tbilisi, Georgia’s capital.

What is fascinating about a Georgian protest is its permanence. The protesters are ready to block the main street for months on end using makeshift huts. Each hut is covered in thick plastic, has a number, and is sponsored by GeoCell (a Georgian mobile service provider). These huts are not big, maybe 6ft x 10ft, and provide only rudimentary accommodation to the dwellers (people who come from the countryside and have very little to do other than sit in their huts and drink tea/vodka).  

Another interesting element is that a quick walk down the Main Street from the parliament building to freedom square (maybe 500 metres) will lead you past 7 or 8 different opposition parties. This has long been the bane of the Georgian opposition. They spend most of the year uniting against Saakashvili only to fall victim to the president’s divide and conquer strategy. Once the opposition starts disagreeing with each other, the protests fizzle out and plans for next year’s protest season begin.

Your Hometown Will Always Love You

You could send millions to their deaths. You could engineer famines. You could set the modern standard for dictatorial brutality. And still your hometown would love you. Just ask Joe Stalin. His hometown in Georgia, aptly named “Gori”, adores the man like he could do no wrong. “He’s ours.” they say, "We have to support him.”

Any Soviet enthusiast (not sure how many there are out there) probably has Gori on his/her list of things to see. This is of course after Lenin’s tomb, Checkpoint Charlie, a functioning commune, and a Lada factory. When I heard the news that Gori had not only a Stalin museum, but that you could take a stroll down Stalin Avenue and step inside is private railway car, I said, “This I have to see.”

Gori sits roughly in the center of Georgia. It’s surrounded on all sides by hills covered in different types of vegetation. A river flows in from the mountains in the north (at least I think it’s from the north). It is like many other cities of its size around the world, except for one glaring exception: it was Stalin’s birthplace. Not too many people can be listed in the same breath as the former Soviet ruler. Unfortunately, it was bombed during the Russian-Georgian conflict last year, to which I remarked, “It’s a little late for payback, isn’t it?”

The museum is nothing short of surreal. Get caught giggling while the tour guide solemnly tells you that Stalin has been judged unfairly and you’ll be sent to the gulags. Make a comment about how fifteen years of history is magically omitted from the tour and get locked up eight stories below the earth. “In 1924, Stalin became General Secretary of the Communist Party. In 1939, he began the victorious struggle against the evil fascists.” Umm…five year plans? Purges? Anyone?

Asked why they continually neglect the negative aspects of Stalin’s infamous career, “No one has sent us any new material or books.” Fascinating stuff.

The glorious climax of the tour was a peak at how the man himself travelled the vast expanse of the Soviet Union. It was modest, in a word. Surprisingly modest. I suppose that doesn’t come as a surprise given the fact that he worked out of a cave-like room.

Josef Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili. A symbol of Soviet modesty. Well, except for all the statues and never-ending, voracious applauses to his speeches.

Naftalan

The Tub

Naftalan - with its standard one tall Soviet apartment block

The Oil Bath Victims

Where the Oil Comes From

The Once Glorious Bus Station

Things You Can Bathe in Other than Water – Part 2

Soon after we settled in to the sanatorium, the moment I had been waiting for since the day I showed up in Azerbaijan arrived. We could only go one at a time, so I was nominated to go first. A guy wearing green scrubs came into the room and ushered me to the bathing area.

The first thing he said after “Is this your first time?” was “Ok, take off your clothes and go into the next room.”

After a deep breath, off they went. I strolled into the adjoining room to see a bathtub in the middle of the room. It was stained a dark tan colour from the consistent contact with the oil. The guy told me to sit down in the tub and then he turned on the tap. Within seconds, oil started pouring out of this pipe about four inches in diameter. I was giddy like a child on his first visit to Disneyland.

I sat there, trying to relax, while the oil level moved up my chest to just below my neck. What a strange feeling. The oil has the colour and consistency of melted milk chocolate. In fact, if you didn’t know better, you’d assume you were bathing in milk chocolate. The oil was also surprisingly hot and possessed almost no smell. The guy said that they take the petrol out of the oil. One would hope that would substantially decrease its carcinogenic properties.

After ten minutes (you’re only allowed a maximum of ten minutes), the guy drained the tub. Unfortunately, the oil doesn’t really fall off your body the way you would hope. Drastic measure need to be taken instead. First, you sit up and the guy uses a long shoe horn to scrape the oil off your arms and back. Second, you stand up in the tub and hold on to some bars with your outstretched arms while the oil gets scraped off your legs. It’s a similar position to when the police ask you to stand against a wall so they can search you. On the second day when an older woman was cleaning me, she point to my nether regions and said, “That’s your business,” and handed me the shoehorn.

Once a majority of the heavy oil is off you, it’s shower time. You take a sponge and a bottle of shampoo and start scrubbing. It takes about thirty minutes to get it all off and you usually end up going through about half a bottle of shampoo. This, if anything, is the major deterrent against bathing in oil. Who wants to spend thirty minutes cleaning each time?

I can’t say I felt much different after the whole experience. Maybe a bit more relaxed. They told us not to go out in the sun for a couple of hours, so we just sat in the shade and played backgammon. What a life.

Things You Can Bathe in Other than Water – Part 1

“Treasure. Bathtub. Treasure bath. I’m going to have a treasure bath!” –Roman Emperor in History of the World Part One.

 

I had a similar reaction as the emperor at the thought of a crude oil bath in the village of Naftalan. Seriously, how awesome is the idea of bathing in oil in perhaps the only country where it is possible? I’ll put it out there and say it takes awesomeness to a new level.

Ok, it sounds crazy and stupid. Any medical professional not trained in the Soviet Union is probably vehemently opposed to the idea. Soviet era doctors, on the other hand, preach the oil’s psoriasis-healing properties. In those days, people came to Naftalan from all over the Soviet Union on vacations from work to recuperate and to treat skin disorders. Such was the Soviet, and now post-Soviet, obsession with sanatoriums.

And thus my fascination with the idea of an old-timey, Soviet sanatorium. It’s one of those things I would never forgive myself for if I didn’t do it. Leaving India without driving a cycle rickshaw, for example, would’ve caused similar regret.

So off we (I actually managed to convince people to come with me) went to the little village of Naftalan, a 7 hour marshrutka (mini bus) ride from Baku. It’s a quaint little place caught in a time warp; like a mining town on the wrong end of a gold rush. You could tell the town had had its glory days. A large bus station stands deserted at the edge of town. I could imagine it being a hub of multiculturalism forty years ago.

Only one Soviet sanatorium remains today. As much as I would’ve loved to go there, my friends weren’t nearly as keen. We chose instead the brand new government-run place that offered us the equivalent of an assisted living package. Meals, oil baths, a place to sleep. It was the easiest 24 hours of my life.