Georgia before the Rose Revolution

Tbilisi, August 2001

Dear Family and Friends:

Greetings from Tbilisi, Georgia.

The temperatures are still 95 to 100 but it’s a desert heat and very dry. The hotel has airconditioning but few of the government offices do. I sit wearing a silk skirt, short sleeve cotton blouse, and mules (open toe and open back shoes)and still I perspire during the meetings. When we visited last May, the government was playing hardball with the (privatized) electricity distribution company, refusing to pay its power bill until the power company paid its taxes. The power company, which is managed by an American firm AES, cut off power to the government buildings and my counterparts could no longer make photocopies or outgoing telephone calls. The international lending institutions have a large program for Georgia and refused to disburse part of the loan until the government increased collection of taxes to the agreed upon targets. To do so, Georgia’s President called on the local mafia—or so goes the rumor—and told them to pay their taxes on the smuggled cigarettes and petrol. In the interests of the country, apparently they did so.The lenders released the funds and government offices could again do their jobs. Such is the world of developing countries in 2001.

It seems that the President is keeping the country together by the force of his personality and will. Apparently after our trip in May, one of the army battalions marched on Tbilisi. The staff had not been paid salaries in some months and they decided to take matters into their own hands. Apparently after the meeting with the President, they laid their down their arms, so to speak, and left Tbilisi.

Even more serious is the recent death of a young TV journalist, who apparently comes from the Georgian elite. Giorgi Sanaia was preparing TV programs talking about corruption in the government. Last week he was murdered in his Tbilisi apartment in what appeared to be a contract killing. He was declared a national hero by the Parliament and the main streets of Tbilisi were closed for his funeral. That evening an estimated 50,000 people participated in a candelight vigil. President Shevarnadze has asked the FBI to send in a team to investigate. According to the local press, the FBI team will come from Ankara, Turkey—even though Moscow is closer and the otherwise logical choice.

I wanted to tell you also about my travels today. The Georgian rules of hospitality are apparently very strict. Even in these dog days of summer, they were obliged to invite us for a big meal, known as a supra. We drove four hours today to the base of their internationally known ski resort, known as Bakuriani. On the way we stopped at Brojoni, from which at least three different Georgian companies take their sulfur bubling waters, all under the trademark name of Brojoni. I walked on the bridge that was constructed for Stalin’s train stop visit there in 1952 and felt that I could almost hear his words talking about the glory of the new Communist state that had been created. The wooden boards had seen better days and as I walked I put hand over hand onto the steel railing to ensure that if the boards gave way, I would not find myself swimming in the rapids below.

The best part of the trip was the drive there and then back. I asked for the front passenger seat so that I could see what was happening along the road. But the real story was on the road. We had a Jeep SUV (sports utility vehicle) that carried seven people comfortably. It had government license plates with AAA as the initial numbers. And it had police lights and a siren. The traffice flowed at different speeds. Some Soviet-style Ladas were heading for the coast. The grain harvesters were workign their way to the next field. The 18-wheel tractor-trailers were travellign between Baku in Azerabaijan and Turkey. The business tycoons in their new BMWs were in a hurry whereever they were going. And then there was us, VIPs with police sirens. Our Georgian driver was trying to drive at 90 kmh—there appears to be no speed limit—and wanted all other cars to get out of the way. Rather than honking twice, which is already obnoxious enough, he put on the siren to advise the other cars that we were about to pass. One car didn’t move over quickly enough and the relatively polite siren was turned into a wail, as if we were speeding through on some matter of national urgency.

Behind us was the other car in our caravan. They were driving a Volga, the car that was once reserved only for the Russian political elite. But lacking the police siren, they had trouble keeping up with us. When I asked our hosts, why a government agency would need a police car, they replied that it was clearly necessary for VIPs like us.

So we drove through small towns where we were avoiding not only the cows and bulls meandering across the road, but also the chicken, the ducks and the pigs and piglets. All seem to be unsupervised with no owners in sight.

So this evening as I sit by the hotel pool, I reflect on my last two weeks here. This pool seems to be the Beverly Hills Hotel pool for Tbilisi as the tycoons take their cell phone calls and talk with the women whose bodies seem to the result of plastic surgery and very careful dieting. Even this evening, when all have gone home and I am alone with my computer and the mosquitos that want to eat my screen, I can feel their spirits and hear their voices. But tomorrow I must do some serious writing.

Sue