It takes 6
hours to travel to Batumi from Tbilisi by train. As the train Eliso and I travel on trundles
through the countryside, the windows frame picture after dramatic picture of
formidable mountains topped by cloud, dry arid plains, lush fields of green,
and old crumbling soviet blocks with cracked windows and leaking pipe work. Disused
railway lines, run parallel, and lead inevitably to Gori, Stalin’s place of
birth. The whole region reeks with an air of disappointment. It is eerie and
unsettling. I am reminded of the long summer days I spent in a dark crumbling
building in Tbilisi in 2011. It was so hot, I struggled to breathe and the only
relief was from a cold water pipe that gushed liquid silver into a cracked and
yellowing pot sink. The water, even in the darkness, seemed to sparkle. The
stand- pipe was next to the toilet and I soon perfected the art of holding my
breath whilst drinking and splashing at the same time.
It was
during that hot summer that I realised that those who admire Stalin still walk
the streets of Tbilisi. A bric-a-brac shop hunkered down on the corner directly
below the filigree balcony where I sat each stifling evening. It was full of faded carpets, pots, old
shoes, books, and pictures of Stalin. Sitting, pride of place on the pavement
in his own frame, itself framed against a rich red and blue rug, majestically
hung, his iconic image dominated the street. Now I find myself on a train
gently rocking its way across Georgia on the outskirts of Stalin’s birthplace.
I see, through petrol coloured glass, weed infested sidings that weep as they
remember.
No one else
seems to be looking out of the window.
No else seems to care.
Cinnamon Swirl
I see
Ancient land
It dwarfs
us.
Low plain
Meandering
sacred river turns to
Tributaries
that tighten like
Veins
Towards,
Stalin’s square.
He waits.
Rusted
Cattle trucks
Open to
destruction, retch
Ghosts and
bullet hole memories on
Disfigured
land.
His
resurrection imminent,
He waits.
Disillusioned,
I eat
Crescent
moon cinnamon swirls, the colour of sunshine that
Melt, all
butter and distracting, in my mouth.
***
Our arrival
in Batumi at 12pm is eventful in that, the taxi driver threw us out of the car
before we got to our accommodation. Eliso and he exchange increasingly heated
conversations. Eliso, mobile phone glued to her ear, peers into the darkness as
she searches for the voice that spills from the receiver. The driver did not
know where he was going and suddenly stopped, and, scurrying like a rat,
shoulders stooped, cigarette glowing, opens the boot and dumps our bags on the
pavement. He wrenches my door open and almost before I could put both feet on
the ground, jumps into the car and speeds off, I would imagine, cursing.
We are lost.
With only the tinny voice from the mobile phone to guide us, and accompanied by
some leery comments from pavement drinkers, we walk silently until we catch
sight of a large woman draped in a bold floral print, who waves at us,
frantically. The woman is the owner of the apartment Eliso has rented for our
stay in Batumi, and with a wave of her hand and a hiss through her teeth, she
passes judgement on all taxi drivers. Safe inside, we drink tea and plan for
tomorrow.
Batumi is
the playground of the rich. Rich Georgians. Rich Russians. Rich Turks. It is half-hearted developed and
half-hearted-cobble-broken abandoned. Modern architecture clashes with
traditional tree lined avenues and as I now sit, on the Batumi shoreline,
having walked through pockets of heat, to lounge, with my feet dipped in the
Black Sea, under tender blue skies, I am aware of the spine of the place, and of
the people who visit her shores.
I write, I
write, I write.
Batumi
White, white
Batumi.
You rise,
shake off flint grey
Pebble
sounds.
A shoreline
of blue heartbeats that pause, skip,
Genuflect
To the
majesty of
Your
mountains
A snow-white
spine upon which
You hang.
It is a lazy few hours. We eat boiled corn and bags of
cherries and peaches. I watch people
playing in the water and standing on the shoreline. One man catches my eye. His entire back is
covered in tattoos underneath a heading spanning from one shoulder blade to the
other that reads;
‘Only God Can Judge Me’.
I want to talk with him. I want to strike up a conversation
about the saintly scenes of hell and damnation that dance on his stretched
flesh and give warning to all those who look. Fascinated, I wonder if he is an
Orthodox Priest. I wonder, if priests, when they disrobe are all covered in
another kind of vestment that pricks and burns and scars like a modern day hair
shirt. Prickly heat keeps my legs tucked in the shade of the umbrella and my
pale skin reddens as I write, I write, I write.
‘Only God Can Judge Me’
Declares the
tattoo across the
Back of the
man who
Stands firm
upon these pebble shores.
Flesh sears
as the folding skin,
Signs of
excess roll down,
Sit,
Paunchy atop
Tight red
shorts.
Incense
burning saints command attention and flinch
As shoulder
blades burn,
They crave
cool dark
Cavernous
vestments of the
Interior.
Your
omnipotent message impregnates
Violates.
Soils.
I stare, you
turn, and our eyes meet.
You watch as
I bite deep
into the dribbling flesh of an over-ripe peach.
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