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Published: August 7th 2007
I confidently wave goodbye to my hosts and step outside, hoping to catch the 1oclock marshrutka (it's 1:15) if I'm not too late. An overcast day in Sukhum(i), a few drops of rain. I've spent the morning at the museum, then at the botanical gardens, then buying stamps and other souvenirs to bribe the Abkhazia-lovers back home. Pretty full day so far. Now I need to catch a marshrutka to Gal(i), another to the "border" at Ingur(i), deal with the Russian soldiers there, walk across the bridge and into Georgia, then take a marshrutka to Zugdidi in time for the market to buy some rolling tobacco, use the internet and catch the night train to Tbilisi. A finely worked out plan and exactly enough money and time to execute it.
I'm already thinking about the opening lines for my Abkhazia blog:
In that no-man's land between sleeping and waking, I hear drunken laughter from the police staying nextdoor, then a melodious "mi-LIIIT-siya!" and crash! the door slams open and there's a drunk soldier/policeman standing there. I sit up and say "Go back to sleep. F*ck off!" (in English), and he turns and leaves. I'm too tired to be surprised so I go back to sleep. Gotta be more careful with the F word, though... it's usually the only word people know in English.
Yes, that's probably the most exciting thing that's happened so far. That, and the border guards trying to steal my leatherman and asking for my sleeping bag as a
padarka. Friggin Amateurs. Abkhazia is dangerous? It's mostly deserted and the signs of civil war are visible in nearly all the buildings in Sukhum(i) and in the countryside further south (14 years on). But dangerous? Danger is my middle name! I eat danger for breakfast! Now.. if I can only bully the border guards into letting me keep my "visa"...
A maroon Lada Dzighuli swerves and skids to a halt right in front of me. Friggin Russians. Learn how to drive! All 4 doors open at once, and men jump out. Who was it who told me they keep the doors slightly ajar to be able to open them quicker? Too many movies. I move a little to give them room. They pounce on me:
Dokumentiy! Davay! Davay! Hey! I was daydreaming! They've got me by the wrists and are trying to shove me into the maroon Lada. WTF? I wrestle my wrist free and curse in Turkish, my voice cracking with emotion (not fear).
Gde vashiy dokumentiy?! I'm not getting into no unmarked car just because some fool shouted "davay" at me! I turn and start walking back towards my house (50m away), and they dream-like follow. Maybe the english-speaking young girls can translate for me, or at least tell me if these dudes are legit or mafiosi after my money. I enter the courtyard with my escort. The girls aren't around. The hostess doesn't speak english and seems cowed. So they're legit.
Dokumentiy! Alright, alright! Just let me find a secluded corner to reach into my money belt without you realizing I have one... A guy sticks to me. Ok, you wait there, and I'll get your dokumentiy. He replies "blah blah
ne panimayu!" I roar back: "
Ya toje ne panimayu!" Now it's time for that semester of Russian to pay off: "
Yesli viy militsiya... viy militsiya da?..." He doesn't let me finished and thunders: "
Tiy Ruskiy znayesh!..." Tiy. Ah, the curse of a linguist... And I guess the rest: "you've been pretending to not speak Russian, but now I've figured you out you miserable piece of sh*t! You're entering a world of pain..." The hostess is watching. I can't let my last impression be one of losing face or cowering before the threat of violence. We're 5 inches apart, eye to eye, he's yelling at the top of his lungs and probably seconds away from smashing my face. Ah, the things penis complexes make us do...
A black mercedes with tinted windows pulls up and a couple of uniformed soldiers come up. Alright... now they're taking me in for sure. They motion to the car: Davay! Now, although it's been 2 years, I still haven't forgiven myself for getting into that pickup in Sudan without a fight and under only the /implied/ threat of violence. No, I'm not getting into any car. If you drag me off that's another story... Whoa! I've got 3 men grabbing me by the collar and shirt and dragging me to the car. Ok, you mean business. That's cool. One of them gets carried away and shakes his fist in my face while yanking on my shirt. I must maintain dignity: "hey hey hey!" I motion my abused shirt. One of the uniformed soldiers makes him let go. I'm on the verge of saying I'd prefer to keep my daypack with me... nevermind, put it in the trunk, it's cool. I'm in custody. You da boss.
In the car they turn to me: "
Tiy Turetskiy, da?" Who, me? While under arrest in the non-existent Republic of Abkhazia? Hell no! "
Nyet, ya Amerikanits." Maybe the landlady said I was Turkish. Or else their spy network really works well. Although.. I know I was doing a pretty good job blending in as Yet Another Russian Tourist.
A sigh of relief: we pull up in front of some kind of state security building. Good, so they aren't after money. Now if I can only get to the guy in charge and clear things up... There's a dude in blue tinted glasses, tall, lanky, confident. Good. He shakes my hand. "You speak English, right?" "Blah blah
shto?" Crap. "Ok,
U minya yest dva sumka v trunk, can we get them out too?" He motions, the bags come out. I'm placed under guard as they give The Boss the rundown. Maybe it's a classist elitist attitude, but once I'm put in touch with somebody educated and in command, I know I'll be OK. It's the zealous piyons you gotta worry about.
Next I'm placed in a room with a dude with a blank sheet of paper who's told to write down
vsyo about me. Doesn't Dostoyevsky say something about being calmed by the sight of a brick wall you know you can't break? I communicate in sign language and broken Russian. I humor his every question, provide him with everything he wants to know. If only Solzhenitsyn could see me! I know this doesn't matter. The Boss will eventually show up and he's the one who's going to tell me I can go. If only I don't end up missing the last marshrutka to the border...
They want o know about my "friend." Good. At least one exists. In Turkmenistan they asked the same question but I was totally alone. "There was this English guy staying at the house. Mark. I don't know his last name. I met him in front of my
kvartiri in Gal; he had come from Sukhum to change some Georgian Lari. He hooked me up with this place to stay. Said he was 48. Went to sleep early and woke up early. Didn't see much of him although we were staying in the same house." The things one can communicate in Russian under duress!
Not to say I was stressed out or afraid... No, at this point I was sure they realized they had made a mistake. Maybe the dudes in the maroon lada were overwhelmed at seeing a backpacker and things ballooned out from there. At any rate, they now have to save face somehow...
"Why are you traveling alone? Why aren't you with some young cute girl?" Are you kidding? So I can put her through this? Imagine me being dragged into an unmarked car in a non-existent country and having to look after a girl on top of it? And then all this questioning and searching? With her? No thank you. I prefer to travel solo for now. Maybe a girl in Western Europe where I'm not walking on thin ice...
A brief bag search: they want to see my "technological stuff" which consists of ipod, shortwave radio, headlamp, leatherman, hotspoon, calculator. Am I traveling light or what? We spread it out on the table. I'm keeping an eye out in case stuff disappears, but they seem very honest, and I'm relieved.
My interrogator tells me I look better clean shaven (as in my 7 year-old passport photo). I respond with my bushman photo on my fake student ID. So you're a student in Istanbul? No, not really... that's fake. I could hear the wheels churning in his head: fake ID? Why? What for? Cheaper museum tickets...
A young man and the Boss show up together. I'm still convinced the Boss speaks English, but he can't risk looking stupid if he doesn't understand me or can't express himself: he's got a piyon with him to do the translation work. The translator dude speaks phenomenal english. Some of the questions are repeated -- I say they're already written down. My interrogator gives a verbal summary of what he's gleaned so far. They're focusing on Mark now: Why was
he in Abkhazia? Where did he visit in Abkhazia? Did he go to the mountains? Does he speak Georgian? Could you please repeat the circumstances of your meeting? Do
you speak Georgian?
I know denial is useless: "
Erti Ori Sami Okhti Khuti." I also know other common constructs such as "
Puri Ar Aris, kho?" or "
lari da nakhavari". But that demonstration should suffice. "
Kargi" says the Boss. We're all linguists here.
There's some more questioning, but I know it's all cosmetic. I relate my version of events. I didn't get into the car because they weren't wearing uniforms, and I thought they were trying to steal my money and passport. The Boss laughs: "were you afraid?" Fear is a strong word. Lets say Concerned.
"So what are you going to do now?" Well, I was trying to go back to Georgia but thanks to you, I think I've missed the last marshrutka! "It's $30 by taxi to the border." Well, if you're paying... "If the Americans are asking us for money we're in deep trouble..." It's good to be alive. We shake hands. "
Viy angliskiy znayetye, da?" A pause. "Very little." I knew it! I could tell you spoke english! Sudan has taught me something, after all. "So what was the problem?" He shakes his head and sighs: "Bad Friends." The wisdom of state security apparati. We shake hands and part as friends. Except for my missed marshrutka!
I see a dude by the side of the road... going to Gal? Yeah. Alright! Some smalltalk. He's worked in Trabzon and knows a few words in Turkish. Russian Georgian Turkish, we manage to communicate. I covet his white teeth.
A second character, with a black corduroy cap, shows up and asks us where we're going. I'm with my big pack so there's no point trying to act like I'm local. I'm going to Gal. "Oh there's the bus to Gal!" he says and moves behind my mate, who jumps a yard away. There's something fishy going on. The new guy must be a pickpocket.
In the bus he sits next to me and manages to keep his hands concealed. It's like a nightmare where you know something is about to happen but you're powerless to prevent it. In my right pocket I have 120 roubles ($5) and my passport in a plastic bag. Unlikely he'll be able to walk away with either, but it's still uncomfortable. My mate is talking to me, but it seems like he's trying to distract my attention. Or am I getting paranoid and freaking out over nothing? Arthur says I shouldn't assume everyone I come across is a f*cker.
A lady in her 30s gets on, we make eye contact and we're immediately friends. I give her my seat. The pickpocket makes room for me and so I sit down next to him again. Then he gets up and slowly works his way towards my daypack and squats next to it. After a while I notice his left hand isn't visible and he's trying hard to be inconspicuous (the way a dog is when taking a dump in public). Yup! Sure enough! He's pulled my daypack over and the zippers are open, and he's been rummaging through them. I pull him up by the collar: "Alright, that's it!" He acts hurt and surprised... me? Your bag? As if I'd ever *dream* of... My "mate" also comes to his aid... "he wouldn't do something like that..." Yeah, except I saw him do it. He tries to pick a fight with me, mocking me and being obnoxious, but if he wants a fight, I'm clearly not going to play into his hands. Now you sight down there and I'm going to stand here and clutch my daypack tightly, and keep one hand in my pocket, and miss this beautiful scenery of lush forests and bombed out houses. My friend (the woman) makes eye contact; I smile and shrug. What can I do? She rearranges her purse and moves her cell phone to an inner pocket and zips it up. I smile broadly and she smiles back. The pickpocket "secretly" talks to my "mate". I assume they're working on a plan of action and discussing my weak spot. I'm fully aware of it: I'm going to have to get off to switch buses in the middle of nowhere, and I'm no match for even one of them (well.. I could take on the pickpocket any day).
The pickpocket gets off and gives me the finger. I hurriedly go through my back again; did he mean he made off with something? No. Good. Give me the finger all you want, fool. We pass the intersection to Gal. My "mate" is asleep so I get off alone. 20 minutes later there's a bus heading to Gal. Deliver us from evil!
The rest of the story is downhill... I get to Zugdidi, but after the market closes. And today's events seem like an overelaborate plot to keep me from buying tobacco....
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ceylan
non-member comment
You may as well try to be a little more sympathetic to the secularists ozgur can, considering you would be one of the first people kicked out of the country if the religious fundamentalists got their way. Remember the muslims are the capitalists now, they are the ones backing all this privatization shit and selling off infrastructure to foreign countries. And as a woman it is fucking unbearable to have to deal with all this sexual repression and tsk tsk tsk and "gotunu sikiiim anam" from the sex-crazedness that comes with islam. You even get it being a pretty boy. Its like all this haram stuff makes the whole male (and female) population completely pornographically minded every moment of the day. Maybe if they saw a few more mini skirts they would get used to it and not act like pigs.