Mtatsminda: The Sacred and the Grotesque

Mtatsminda is a mountain overlooking Tbilisi.

"Minda" means mountain.

12 May 2012 correction, thanks to 'George from Georgia';

'Mta' means mountain,
'Tsminda' means - sacred.
Mtatsminda - Sacred Mountain.

Atop Mtatsminda are an amusement park, a communication tower, and near the top, an historic church and cemetery.

The communication tower and the amusement park's gigantic ferris wheel are lit at night. The ferris wheel is blue. The communication tower is a glittering amalgamation of red, blue, yellow, and white.  The two are iconic beacons to those in the city below.

There used to be a tram that ran people up and down the mountain, but that seems to be out of service. You can take a city bus up the winding mountain road for only 50 tetri! It's a very scenic drive, taking about 30 minutes.

Neli has been nagging sweetly encouraging me to visit Mtatsminda for weeks, nay months. With Kate visiting here, the time for the visit had come.

Sandy, Kate, and I caught the city bus for Mtatsminda on Rustaveli Avenue and began our scenic wind up the mountain. If that's all we would have done, it would have been good, well worth the time (not to mention the negligible fare).

We drove by flowering trees, the forested mountainside, and panoramic views of Tbilisi below. Some restaurants tucked into the woodlands. People walking up and down the mountain. We reached the top, where the bus let us off.

The first thing we saw was jaw-dropping in its immensity, turgidity, and ... grotesquerie.

Who designs this shit? I mean really.


It was like a scene from Dante's Inferno.

We stayed here only long enough to use the WC and to find out how to get to Mamadaviti Church ("Father David's").

I confess that I can't keep track of all of Georgia's churches, how old they are, and the specific ins and outs of their unique frescoes (or lack thereof). So all I can say is that this church is old and Father David was much beloved. Oh, wait, here's a link. 

There is a cemetery in the churchyard, occupied by important members of Georgia's intelligentsia. And also Stalin's mother, but not Stalin.

The church and its yard perches on the side of the mountain. From the mountain's top, we climbed down and down and down on the paved path, wondering if the threatening thunderstorm would attack at any moment. We walked down and down and down with complete faith that we would not have to climb back, and indeed, we had mutually decided there was no way in Hell (see above photo) we would do such a thing.

Mtatsminda - Steps down from the mountain.

In the church, there was a service in progress. It was packed with worshippers. Swirling within, we heard the most beautiful chant song, all men. It was so crowded, no photos or video possible.

Mtatsminda, Georgia. Father David Church.

The cemetery, called the Pantheon of Writers and Public Figures, has intriguing grave monuments.



I am perplexed by the monument below. If you're going to be coy about the man's possession of a penis, wouldn't it make sense to sculpt at least the suggestion of clothing? And it's not as if Georgians are bashful about such things. I see men urinating in public quite frequently. Wait, maybe not as frequently as that just sounded. But for example: Twice this week. 

Mtatsminda, Georgia. Father David Church cemetery.

Presently, we left the church and resumed our walk down to the city.

View of Tbilisi from Mtatsminda

View of Tbilisi from Mtatsminda

View of Tbilisi from Mtatsminda

Eventually, we made it down to a street with yellow marshrutkas bobbling by; we grabbed one and then escorted Sandy to the Didube metro and market, where she caught a marshrutka to Gori.





 

 

Borjomi, Part 5: Bakuriani and Back

Kate, Sandy, and I arrived in Bakuriani via Kukushka.

To say Bakuriani was dead is to presume that it sometimes has life. Well, sure it does. In the winter and summer.

In the spring: Nada.

Bakuriani is a ski resort in the winter and in the summer a respite from the heat of Tbilisi.

We had a difficult time finding a restaurant that was open. We just missed, apparently, being able to lunch at the Prego restaurant, but did enjoy the classic Georgian body language of this chef out behind Prego:

Bakuriani, Georgia.

Bakuriani, Georgia.

The above two-part display is a response to my request for permission to take his photo. In Georgian body language, he is saying:

"Of courrrrse! Why wouldn't you want to take a photo of me in my Georgian splendiforousness! I am truly a magnificent representation of the wonder of all things Georgian, am I not?"

When we did find an open restaurant, I liked this page on its menu:

Bakuriani, Georgia.

I've seen "sprats" often on Georgian menus. Don't know what they are. I'm pretty sure the "lard with garlic" refers to small, sliced or chunked portions of cold pork fat. Not the succulent, crispy fat off of a roast ham or pig. No, it's more along the lines of what you imagine whale blubber to be.

I also like the suggestions of what food to order to go with one's vodka or beer rather than the reverse, i.e. what wine to go with the food you plan to order.

There was some mix-up about when we could take a marshrutka from Bakuriani to Tbilisi. Eventually this was cleared up by learning the answer was: You can't. Not today, anyway. That marsh sailed awhile back.

So we had to take a marsh back to Borjomi, and from there take one to Tbilisi. Sandy hoped to take a marshrutka that would return her to Gori. (The marshrutka from Borjomi to Tbilisi would go by Gori and Sandy could take that, but it meant being left off by the highway and having to take a 2nd transportation to Gori center.)

So back to Borjomi we went, at a considerably faster pace than we experienced by Kukushka just a few hours earlier.

Borjomi, Georgia.

A ride on Borjomi's main thoroughfare: 

Upon arrival at Borjomi's marshrutka area, Kate and I pretty much moved seamlessly from one marshrutka to another for our return to Tbilisi. Sandy was told that a marshrutka leaving for Gori would arrive within minutes, only to discover (while Kate and I observed from our seats in the Tbilisi marshrutka) that this marshrutka had actually left while she was receiving this critical information and it was the last to leave for Gori for the day. Sandy decided to get a marshrutka to Khashuri, then a Gori marshrukta from there. 

Kate and I pulled out of Borjomi, leaving Sandy to her fate.

As we neared our Gori drive-by, the overcast skies and recent rain made for beautiful scenes:

Sandy arrived at her destination safely.

Borjomi, Part 4: Kukushka

Borjomi to Bakuriani - Kukushka

There's a narrow-gauge train between Borjomi and Bakuriani. Georgians call it "Kukushka." Every time I say this to Georgians (and til recently, I mispronounced it as Gugushka), they laugh with affection about this little train.

Our plan for the day was to take Kukushka to Bakuriani. So Sandy, Kate, and I made our way out of bed and went in search of something breakfasty. Not a lot of choice in Borjomi on a Sunday morning, but we found fresh-baked, warm bread and pastries out by the marhsrutka and taxi area.

Borjomi actually has two train stations; don't know if the one at Little Park is operational, but we had to go to the one at the edge of town. We took a taxi there.

A woman on the road in a 2nd or 3rd world country is always mindful of the toilet situation. Is there a toilet at the take-off point (i.e. train station, marshrutka area, bus station)? Will there be pit stops along the way to the destination? How long is the trip? Can I have the morning cup of coffee or no? That's one of the things I miss about the U.S. -- when I go out, I go out. No worries about facilities because there's always something available. And if I have to stop the car, then I stop the car.

So anyway, we got to the train station. The actual train depot was locked, and we didn't know if it would open when the train arrived or what. There was a very large, gray Soviet building across the parking lot; it looked vacant, but I saw people wander into the front door.

Borjomi - Kukushka train station market

I took a look and discovered a giant vendor market inside - produce, honey, chacha, wine, cheeses, meats, and clothing and plasticware. I indicated a desire for a toilet and a woman escorted me outside the building and around back to a squat toilet. Cost = 30 or 40 tetri.

Fast forward. Kukushka chug-chugged into the station. Ah, we pay the train employees directly while on the train. There are two cars: One for the proles and one for the bourgeoisie.  One lari for the former and two lari for the latter. Comparison: The bourgeois car has immense windows that are clean. A WC. Comfortable and spacious seats. The prole car has smaller and grim windows. The seats seem more packed together. I couldn't tell if there's a WC.

Kukushka toilet proudly empties directly onto track.

Finding no particular nobility in experiencing the 3-hour ride through the mountains next to grimy windows, I persuaded my comrades (not that it took much persuasion) to pop for the privileged car. I estimated we'd be virtually alone in this car and sure enough, that was the case for the most part. (I'll leave philosophical questions such as why the one-lari car can't also have clean windows to those more erudite than I.)

Borjomi, Georgia. Kukushka. Red car 2 lari. Green car 1 lari.

It was a grand ride to Bakuriani.  Sandy, Kate, and I sprawled wantonly all over "our" car, sitting here and there and moving about as we pleased. How quickly power corrupts.

Secret agent on the Kukushka. Borjomi, Georgia.

Some scenes from our trip:




And live action:

We saw a lot of brown swathes in the forest and wondered why. Logging? A fire? A disease? Insects? I later learned that the Russians peppered the forest with incendiary bombs to destroy the forest.

A lovely trip. Incredible to experience such beauty on a train for so little money.  Thank you, Georgia!  

Sighnaghi Revisited

With Kate visiting from the U.S., it warranted a second excursion to Sighnaghi.

We replicated the trip I'd taken earlier with Sandy, Marie, and Eberle, including a taste of the hot chocolate, lunch at the Mexican restaurant, a stop in the old church, and a visit to the Pheasant's Tears winery.

Each brought a fresh perspective.

At St. George church, there was no wedding in progress, so we got to investigate the interior at our leisure.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. Accoutrements of an active church. St. George.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. Matrimonial crowns, St. George Church.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. St. George Church.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. These look like Ethiopian figures.

At the Mexican restaurant, the view was still spectacular, and Kate bought a CD from the owner, who is a member of a group that sings traditional chants. He learned about Mexican food when he spent a year in California teaching monks Georgian chant (versus, say, Gregorian chant).

The restaurant owner is the man in the green shirt, in the middle, standing.


After a satisfying lunch, we walked down and then up to Pheasant's Tears winery, where I hoped we'd see John Wurdeman, one of the owners. (He is Nely's hero.) We didn't succeed in that regard, but we enjoyed some wine and had a look-see in the cellar, or maroni.

Sighnaghi - Pheasant's Tears wine maroni

Sighnaghi - Pheasant's Tears wine maroni

Sighnaghi - Pheasant's Tears wine maroni

Outside, we looked at the traditional qvevri, which is what gets buried in the ground, filled with the wine makings.

Sighnaghi - Pheasant's Tears wine qvevri

We were entranced by the jewel-tone color of our wines.

On the way out, we saw a beautiful cake and bouquet of flowers, intended for a wedding party later. I'm reminded of my aunt June's response to an invitation to indulge in a sweet: "No, thank you, the visual feast is enough." 

Sighnaghi - Pheasant's Tears cake and flowers

On the way to our departing marshrutka, I stopped in a shop that seemed to specialize in decrepit food items.Cheese hardening and curling as one watched. I liked the fish hanging.

Sighnaghi - Fish hanging

 

Tbilisi: Dolled Up

Tbilisi doll exhibit

Kate's guesthouse hostess, Marina, took us to an exhibit at the Georgian Folklore State Centre at 68 Agmashenebeli Avenue in the Marjinishvili neighborhood. We didn't know in advance what kind of exhibit it would be, but she did say there'd be a well-known musical group performing there later.

Well, damn. Marina hides her light under a bushel. It was a doll exhibit and Marina had a number of dolls on display. (She also has her work represented at the Doll Museum.)




A polyphonic men's group sang reverberatingly beautifully. As you can see on the video, the place was packed. 

A Ukrainian group sang as well, but unfortunately, the sound quality in the room, both electronic and ambient, didn't do them justice.

Tbilisi doll exhibit. Ukrainian singers.

Tbilisi doll exhibit. Ukrainian singers.

I don't know what the brown sackcloth costumes are about. Pretty ghastly. As Nely says, "not all traditions are good traditions." Perhaps they're the Ukrainian Christian version of an abaya.

Borjomi, Part 3: The Three Tests

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Every good fairy tale has three tests that heroes and heroines must pass. Indiana Jones had to solve three clues in The Last Crusade. Thus it was in our walk to the spring pool in Borjomi's Mineral Spring Park.

Once we got off the pavement and turned a bend, Sandy and I found ourselves in an idyllic wood. We soon arrived at a bridge over the River Mtkvari. It was so pretty, I called Kate and suggested that she come just this far to see how gorgeous it was.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

This was my kind of place: Trees, a river, spring flowers, mossy bark, cool woodland breeze, birdsong, piney scents. There was no one else around.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

 

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Presently we came upon a rivulet that fed into the Mtkvari. Shallow but somewhat wide, we carefully stepped on the rocks to cross over. A bit of a delicate operation to keep from getting our shoes wet, nothing onerous. I expressed my relief to Sandy that we'd successfully traversed the spot of trouble before getting to the spring pool. Sandy doubted this was the trouble spot as it seemed a little too easy.

We passed a grave.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

We went up a steepish hill. We went down the hill.

And then Sandy and I saw it. The real challenge. No rivulet this. It was an adolescent stream, bristling with watery bravado, fast. Big, slippery rocks. Falling into this would mean an injury or being pulled into the roiling Mtkvari. There was no gingerly stepping across stones here to avoid getting one's shoes wet.

How to pass? Ah. There were two stripped, straight limbs laid parallel to each other across the stream. Each was about five inches wide. The stream was too wide to enable the holding of one end of something on one bank while crossing to the other bank. The stream moved too fast and furious to stick a large branch into the wale for anchoring while crossing. No. One had to, for a space, walk what seemed like a tightrope.

Borjomi, Georgia. Second water crossing. Photo credit: Sandy.

And we did it, Sandy more nimbly than I, and with her attempting to give me a hand at my turn, in the form of a decrepit, dried branchlet that crumbled into the rapids below. It was the thought that counted. 

Much relieved that we'd passed the trouble spot, we headed confidently toward the spring pool. Along the way today, we'd touched base telephonically several times with a TLG colleague who'd walked partway on this trail just a couple of weeks ago. We called her again after achieving our little feat, to discover that she and her husband had turned back at the first rivulet (not because of its difficulty, but because they hadn't received good direction and thought perhaps the spring pool was simply too far ahead).

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

So Sandy and I pressed on through the beautiful wood.

We heard people's voices up ahead. As we came closer, we saw a woman standing on the bank of the river. And we looked where she looked.

Shit.

This is what we saw.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

The woman's companion was walking ever so carefully across a log across the River Mtkvari. He held on to a steel cable to maintain balance.

Then the woman went across.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Sandy and I could see what had to be the spring pool over on the other side, up the path a bit. Should we go across? Could we? Were we stupid? Or adventurous?

We were so close to the spring pool. We had passed the previous two tests. We must finish the challenge.

But first, let's take a moment to reflect on the Georgian belief of what deserves care and what doesn't. As you can see from the above, Georgians are cavalier about park visitors taking on this treacherous path to a spring pool. No signs of caution. And, you can't see this from the photo, but that steel cable is frayed smack in the middle of the log "bridge," and I pity the person who happens to be going across when it separates, notwithstanding the single bale wire holding it somewhat in place. 

Here is what we saw in the hotel wastebasket: 

Borjomi, Georgia. Hotel Victoria wastebasket warning.

Go figure. Though now that I think about it, maybe Georgians do need to have such stickers on trash containers.

BTW, this is a thought-provoking article (Why Smart People Make Dumb Mistakes) on how safety features in parks may actually contribute to injuries and death. I've linked to page 3 of the article, which goes straight to this point, but the entire article is excellent information about how our mental models affect our safety in the wilderness.     


But anyway, Sandy and I each went across the log, Sandy venturing first. Oooh, I will admit, it was a little scary! It made a tremendous difference having seen two people cross it before us.

Here are different perspectives:

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Sandy and I felt like we'd achieved a cool thing by walking across that log.

So we walked confidently to the spring pool, not worrying that we'd have to re-cross the log on the return trip, only to discover one more hurdle before reaching the pool:  

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Really, all we could do was laugh before crossing over.


Views of the spring pool:

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

The spring pool was rather anti-climactic after we passed our three tests, but we still dipped our feet into the lukewarm water.

The walk back was uneventful, though not without challenge of re-crossing our waters.

I dropped my backpack on the path before trotting into the brush for a wilderpee.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

We collected Kate at the park entrance and began our return to town center.

But just outside the park, we noted -- and I don't use this word lightly -- an amazing house in the process of renovation. It might be worth a trip back to Borjomi just to see the finished product. We had no idea of its provenance, but it was dazzling.

Blue-trimmed exterior and design reminiscent of America's "Painted Ladies."

San Francisco Painted Ladies on Alamo Park. California.

But there was a mirrored tile balcony that had us mesmerized.  

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

It was fine.

By the time we got back to town center, it was time for dinner, so we went to the restaurant adjacent to the train depot. We arrived in the nick of time, as all tables except one was filled. Most customers were women of all ages, drinking merrily and then later, dancing. Traditional Georgian dancing, and modern. Although the food was nothing special, Sandy, Kate, and I got into the fun of the happy dancing.

A pleasurable day.