Saturday, 15 November 2014

Road-Kill and Destiny



The chicken, squawked.

Discharged orange, yellow-blood-red soul-full feathers 

Cloud high, as the Moirai called her home.


Framed through the rear window, like some tourist board idyll,

Peasant farmers, all brown cloth caps and humble bent-backs

Scrape up the bird, broken body protesting,

Put it in a waiting black pot.


Already boiling.



I was shocked, not at the road-kill, but at the cavalier approach to this casual death and how we kept on driving. The taxi driver gave a shrug of his shoulders, and a ‘What can I do?’ gesture. I thought, as I settled into my seat-belt-less back seat journey to Khakheti, how chance had played her hand in my being here. When I scribbled the bare bones of the poem Road-Kill into my note-book, I realised that, much like the farmers by the side of the road had been waiting for an opportunity to cook a chicken, he too had been waiting for an opportunity to take without remorse, what he thought he was entitled to.  When he started to pursue me, I was so heady with his power and his passion for Georgia that I was blind to the waiting black pot he had boiling in the background.


The night before this trip to Khakehti,   we  had walked through the uneven streets of the Old Town and I had felt as if many eyes were on me. It could have been my hair I suppose. It’s vibrant, curly, red and untameable or, it could be that there was some vague recognition by fellow pedestrians of me from the TV appearances I had given over the years. Either way it was unsettling. I had texted my ‘god-father’ earlier in the day hoping for a conversation. If there was going to be any kind of contact with any of them then it was better if I took the initiative. I had been greeted with a wall of silence. Not surprising, but I felt disappointed and it only added to my belief that, like the chicken, I had once served a purpose, my usefulness had ended and I was, indeed, now worthless.


Coming back from Khaketi, where we had been well and truly supra-napped*, the very same taxi driver knocked the back leg of a puppy that had wandered onto the road. This time I was devastated. I made him stop the car. I got out and marched back to where the dog had dragged itself into a ditch by the side of the road. I scooped her up and cradled her. I pleaded with the old farmer leaning, bemused at all the fuss, on his stick, to let me take her home. I called her Murah and she was going to come back to the UK with me.




Murah (Grey)


Eight weeks old.

Already nearly-blind.


Ticks colonise your ears,

Paws, nose and multiply in the heat

From my breast

As I hold you.


Your heart slows and

From warning fear filled pain howling

You stretch, yawn, sleep.


I wrap you in my scarf.


My body shaking sobs and fevered tears

Mingle with your hot relieved wee as it trickles

Down my arm, stains my skirt.


Eight minutes after being

Knocked senseless, your beaten, torn, discarded form

Not quite broken,


Had found sanctuary.



The taxi driver joked that the dog was lucky and if that  if this was what it took to get a visa into the UK he would consider throwing himself under the wheels of a car too.


The mercy dash to a British run dog shelter in Tbilisi meant that Murah survived her ordeal. Half German Shepherd half Huskie, she was seen  by the vet the next morning, cleaned up and soon adopted by a German couple living in Tbilisi. I had already  adopted a blonde Labrador cross from Georgia earlier that year and once I realised  my house was physically not big enough for the size Murah was going to grow into, I paid for her  vets bills and her upkeep until a forever home was found. Thankfully, it did not take too long. I see her now and again, thanks to the joy of social media and recognise, in her photographs, a happy, kind and beautiful dog who is adored and who adores in return.


#             Supra-napped is a phrase I have fashioned to explain what it is like to be faced with mountains and mountains of food at a Georgian supra-feast having hoped that, having attended many supra’s before, I would not have to spend three-quarters of my time in Georgia eating and drinking rather than visiting and learning. During my trip I was only supra-napped twice which was great and meant I did not need to start wearing a bigger pair of trousers.


Friday, 14 November 2014

Fate Chance or Destiny


One Death occurs every 18 hours on Georgian roads.

That’s quite high.


The only road from Kutaisi

To Tbilisi via Imereti 

Undulates, regurgitates river- bed red pregnant- belly pots.

Pungent ancient soil morphs at

Mountain forest- verge-side into three-footed fug shrouded black cauldrons boiling corn.


Multiple wooden cross- squandered lives sit amidst

Rusting car carcasses.


Caught in the eddies of death-trap memories

I catch lamenting,

Keening  grand- mothers, whose crashing hearts ache and connect with

New collisions.


We pass, from the illusionary comfort of our air-conditioned coach

Three accidents.


All fatal.


I cross myself,

Just to make sure,

Three times.


As is the custom.



The percentage of death from car accidents of both Georgians and Foreigners is high, with one person injured every hour in a traffic-related accident, while one death occurs every 18 hours  according to a study released by the Safe Driving Association, a Georgian non-governmental organisation. The World Health Organisation puts the number of fatalities at 16.8 per 100,000 people each year.

We were heading back to Tbilisi and the closer we got the sicker I felt. The granite grey  boulder in my stomach was grinding against itself. I think, unlike the illusion of safety I had created, deep inside myself  to use as protection whilst exploring the Western side of Georgia, I could no longer ignore the fact that he must know I was in the country. We were heading into Tbilisi that evening to the Rezo Gabriadze marionette Theatre, a quirky, wholly eccentric and eclectic puppetry piece in a theatre under a quirky, wholly eccentric clock tower. Getting there meant walking through cobbled Old Town streets, under the shadow of Sameba Cathedral and facing, squarely, memories of happier, love soaked arm-entwined times.

Wednesday, 12 November 2014


This is my tribute to all the women in Georgia who have suffered any form of violence at the hands of men. As a result  of my own extremely distressing  experiences with a particular Georgian man, it is difficult for me to find a safe space within myself to ‘be reasonable’ about such an emotive subject.  I don’t actually think I should dumb down my own emotional response to the latest murder of a young woman in Georgia who was killed and her body burnt. The fact that she was vociferous about women’s sexual rights and the rights of the  LGBT community only highlights how oppressed women and minority groups are. She was murdered for having a voice, and for finding the courage to  stand up for basic human rights in a society that is deeply flawed.

The horrific nature of this woman’s death is  not, unfortunately, unusual, nor are the every day signs and sounds of domestic violence that I find  to be tangible in Georgia. When I was there last summer, I had coffee with a friend in the Old Town of Tbilisi, a cafĂ© that, on the surface looked cosmopolitan and European. My friend told me how, that very morning he had tried to find the apartment in the block where he was living, where the screaming, sobbing, thumps and thuds were coming from. Every few days, he said, the same thing happened. He could not tell if it was from the apartment above, below, by the side or across the hall. His face was tortured and his fists bunched as he said, ‘If I  could get my hands on the bastard I would kill him.’


Have you ever had a death threat?

I have*. Seriously.

Have you ever told people about the death threat only to be greeted with platitudes of, ‘Oh he would never do that, he may say it but he would never do it.’

I have. Seriously..

Have you ever been threatened by his friends, been told you were lying, were attention seeking, that ‘These things were a private matter and not to be spoken about’. 

Told that you, ‘Did it to yourself’.

 That you were crazy and ought to be ashamed?

I have been. Seriously.

Have you ever had people who are in denial about the toxicity of a society look at you with pity as you struggle to understand how this has happened to you… to you? If only you would shut-up.

 Just. Shut. Up.

I have. Really.  Seriously.

Georgia’s hatred for women is growing.

If you are a woman who happens to be active,

If you  are a woman who pokes the blind eye

Who paints rainbow colours on the steps  of public indifference

If it is you who makes, into a paper aeroplane the letter, hand delivered to the

Head of the home,

Reminding  you not to show your bruises next time


Could you fold it please, and  from your 9th floor post- soviet concrete crumbling apartment

that drips and

Stinks of lies and drink, let it go, so that I may find it and come and

Release you?


For you, my sister, are lost. Ashes of intention drift over the plateau.

Your children are silent now.


The stick he used to beat you, is left now, smouldering by the blackened bed.

Where is the key he forced inside you, jagged, charred, now crevice concealed by a concerned neighbour

Who wiped it clean right after

He turned it, that last time,

Against you.



# After thinking I could handle the threats and manage them myself I realised that, after the man who was making them wrote that he could ‘pay anyone in London just £200 to hurt me’ I involved the police. They took it seriously, contacted Georgia, connected me with the domestic abuse telephone support line, who called every week for the next 4 months and then once a month for a year afterwards, prioritised any calls I made to them and filed a case against him. They advised me to keep silent. 

Silence does not help. It disempowers everyone.



Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Sacrifice the children to the Chqondidi (Big Oak)

Moonshine razor rivet screams choke on copper smoke


Hide, for an instant this man-beast-bird

Gibbet, that hangs, cradles

Low plucked fruit, out of season child



Pulsed his way to this idol world of chqondari. Of men who will never

Feel the tug of lips on breast, or smell the sweet scent of hair like the white daisies out- side our



Did they notice his bow-mouth tremble?

Did the singe-blonde flop of his baby curls scorch their souls

As they lit the fire beneath?


Acrid tears tear my eyes as I will my

Salt slit womb  to poison the life



A Mother’s Sacrifice
They came on  Saturday. The priests of the idol. With their robes and their chanting.  And they waited, like hovering eagles. And they held out their clawed hands, for my token.
My white pebble covered in ochre dots, one for each member of my family, spiralled into the centre, where the last dot, golden like the sun, flashed  as it went, into a basket woven from reeds by the river.
My river .
The river where I sang to my son every day, where I had sung to the moon each night and watched my belly grow until he came to me, my boy.

 ‘How many?’ his father asked, eyes cast down. Early spring daisies littered our front garden and as my baby sat on one hip, I felt the child within me stir. My heart tightened with their reply.


‘It will be an honour if we are chosen,’ this man murmured and scuffed with his foot, at a stick and snapped the head from one of the flowers.

Watching the priests leave, I felt the heat of my son’s cheek against my shoulder. He had been unwell. A spring fever. The feverfew and lavender had only soothed, not cured.  His skin burned and I saw tiny red flowers start to appear. His tongue was swollen and the colour of raspberries. I hurried inside. The spirits needed to be welcomed. Once in,  I covered the walls with red cloth and sang to him as he lay restless and hot in his cot.

 ‘Lullaby, lullaby,
Violets opened Roses’ petals lullaby,
I’ll meet batonebi’s aunt with pleasure, lullaby,
I’ll see her in as a godsend guest, lullaby,
With a carpet on the floor, lullaby’

As he drifted in and out I took, from my special place, the dagger. I tied the 5 red stones I had taken from the river, to the handle, and hung it on the wall opposite his bed. I remember I was singing all the time. ‘Lullaby, Lullaby’

Later that day, my husband came back. Shaking his head, he placed my token on the red cloth I had covered in flowers and sweet wine. My boy had been chosen.

Guests started to arrive before I was ready for them. Some bought eggs, some, flour, some dried fruit, but they all bought wine and they all looked at me with pity in their eyes. Hushed whispers accompanied quiet toasts and gifts were left by the fire place. Dolls made from sticks, beads, shells. I remember the men starting to sing, long low baleful sounds that cut through the night air and drifted up to the sacred space where the Oak Tree and the priests were waiting.

My boy’s fever broke in the early hours as the cock crowed. The red Sunday dawn bought with it the box with wheels. He had to go swaddled, in that, through the village, up to that place. I don’t remember who made the box. I think it was the boy’s father and I felt he had done so with a heavy heart. Watching my son sleeping peacefully in the early morning light I knew I had to  stop this from happening.  I had to save him.

I had heard of a man, a man far away, who had cut down the old Oak, with an axe that had glinted so brightly in the sunlight, that the people had been blinded by it.  I begged and begged my husband to help me, to save our boy,  begged him to find this saviour,  to tell people about this man, but he beat me and I fell on the hard stone floor. Curling around my belly as he kicked me again and again I knew it was over.

I don’t remember much else, only the bitter taste of the tincture I had shared  with my son.  He, before he was put, seemingly asleep on the cart, opened his eyes and kissed my nose. ‘Deda’ he whispered, as I swaddled him tight.

I followed the cart to the sacred place.  As the moon broke from behind the midnight clouds, I watched the priest put him in the cage.  

The oak groaned.
I smelt the burning of his flesh. The oak sighed.
I heard him scream. The oak swayed.
The eagles circled.
This story is based on factual information about the ceremonies held by the Druids before  Christianity arrived in the Megrelian region where the Martvili Church stands. Research suggests that St. Andrew, one of Christ’s apostles travelled here in the 1st century and stopped the practice of sacrificing a  one year old child every year to appease the Druid gods. The child was chosen by a lottery system. The Oak Tree  that housed the copper gibbet (depends on who you read – could be in the shape of a man or an eagle) was cut down by St. Andrew who then used the wood to build the first church on the site. He sent out word that the barbaric  practice  of sacrificing children was no longer to take place but  this met with some resistance as oak trees continued to grow and this was used as evidence that the gods needed appeasing.  In response he commanded that all the oak trees be pulled up and placed upside down against the walls of churches. Acorns were planted to show that natural trees are not evil. The practice of up- rooting oak trees continued, along with other ceremonies, songs and rituals, as part of the Chvenieroba festival up until the 1920’s when it was banned by the Communists.

Sunday, 12 October 2014

Nino Chooses White Floating Trousers

Father Andrew,

Kind smiling eyes in a

Brown walnut face

Spends time,

Telling me about St. Andrew

And his good deeds.


He calls me Nino,

My baptism name.


I unnerve him

In my earnestness.


I think, mistakenly that

My spirit is soothed and

As divisions open in my



My white floating trousers

Offend darting, covered women

Who brush, with twigs, and pick with bitten fingernails

The wax from tiny, hand made candles, that drip

Foetid liquefying mounds of prayer.


One darts forward and ties, around my hips

A blue sarong, the colour of my eyes.


My sex now covered I can confess

I craved, for an instant, the anonymity of these



Should I immerse, plunge?

Should I leave behind the hot fire of my joyful defiant life?

Should I enter the cool nunnery of conformity?


My throat constricts.

During the summer of 2011 I was baptised, in the river at the foothills of Mkskheta and took the name of Nino.  It was the day before I was due to fly home and the weather was about to change. I could smell the rain coming. We drove, at speed, because we were late, to a church nestling in a grove of cedar. We were late because he had been filming for one of his documentaries. The rest of the choir were all there, as was the priest, all waiting. After a conversation with the church father where I felt both curious and full of emotion, we all drove down to the river.


The entrance was gated, locked and guarded. There was an electricity station at the side of the river and no one could enter. My companions smiled smugly and there was a lot of gesticulation going on. I felt surprisingly disappointed. Perhaps this was more important to me than I first thought. The priest I had been talking with at the church earlier arrived and spoke to the guard who, shaking his head and pursing his lips refused to let us through the gate.  I could see that things were going to get more interesting when the priest started to talk into his mobile. He passed the phone to the guard, who listened for a few short seconds, then started to nod enthusiastically.  He then opened the gate and shouted blessings at us as we passed through.  The joke, whether it was true or not, was that the priest had a direct line to the patriarch, who had, in one word cemented my decision.


We all drove down a track to the river where, after I had changed into a full length black skirt,  black blouse and covered my head entirely in a head scarf, I stepped into the freezing water where my soon to be god-father and the priest were waiting. There was no doubting that the total emersion, the sacred oil, the ritual of chant and the intention in that moment, in that space and that time, was full of honour. There was also no doubt that the natural and complete expressions of love shown afterwards at a supra at the Armazis Khevi Restaurant were genuine and there was no doubting the pride everyone felt at the conversion of a foreigner to the orthodox religion. I however, did not feel any different.  I was glad I did it, but not for the same reasons they were. So why did I do it?  


I did it for several reasons. Firstly, I wanted to make getting  married to him easier. He had proposed the previous February.  Secondly, I kind of figured that if Armageddon was going to happen it would be good to be a member of one of the most fearsome religions in the world. Seriously though, I was already completely comfortable with my own system of belief and did not, and still do not believe in divisions and borders between faiths. I guess I did it for the experience but, unlike some before me,  I did not experience a cleansing revelation or an epiphany. This was, mostly, I think, because I have worked very hard over many years to become accepting of difference, and am able to embrace  diversity and people  without judgement.  Did I lie to them?  Not at the time, no. Did I lie to myself? I don’t think so. Am I sorry that I did it now? Yes. But only because of the feelings of bitter disappointment in how a community that had welcomed me with such open arms when I was conforming to their expectations, turned their back on me when I was hurting and questioning what they claimed to underpin the very essence of their teachings.

In the end, I returned the passport that gave me my official status as a member of the Orthodox Church, to my god-father with a note saying that I could not be part of any religion that excluded, judged, damned, stripped the voice from and intimidated anyone who did not conform. In whose eyes am I a member of the Georgian Church?  Certainly not mine.

When it's my time I would like to be buried in a quiet English Church of England grave yard, preferably under a shady tree. No keening and highly ritualised toasting for me thank you. If anyone wants to scatter wild flower seeds above me I would be most grateful.

The Land Beneath

Thank you, Misha

For the new road to Martvili.


Past travellers speak of attacking, rutting, gouging terrain. Now

This scold’s bridle muffles land of

Blubbing streams, cracked hazelnut groves, skeletal corn fields and


Abandoned ancient cobbled stones that watch, side

Lined as salient ornate filigree balconies, bridges from the past,

bristle with resentment.


Underneath, Misha,

Patriarchal land, scattered with golden fleece promises

Calls the beasts from wooded places

and they come, one and all.


Cows, ducks, goats, cocks, chicks,  dogs, horses, pigs, bears, wolves. They are set on

Reclaiming the old road and, oblivious to your ideology, Misha, they will beat and tear

With brooms and chairs and nettles and with righteous anger,

The new road down.


They do not care for your future, Misha.

The beasts of the land return

Reclaim the teeming earth.



Wednesday, 8 October 2014

Severed Exhaust

Unstable, hot metal sheets

Swaddle  Chanistskali  bridge.

Rivets tear at river’s bend as we,

All sat up and keen to arrive

Push forward over sheer drop cracks of space beneath.


Broken water rumples and cocoons tumble stones  from

Distant cousin mountain- tops.


Egg pebbles skittle as boys who,

Brown from acres of sky, haunch, squint, push hard against echoing white light,

Pluck up stones,

Lob them.


Our car, already lacking suspension

Passes, at some speed toward the far side when the

Rear-end arches to meet the vicious scalpel cut that

Slices, just under me, the exhaust





We were heading towards Martvili Monastery. The previous night I had sat, until late, at our host’s table,  with Nino, asking hard questions  about the legend of St. Andrew who, in the 1st century had stopped the Druid ritual of sacrificing a baby, one a year, every year, to appease the  gods.  As a mother, I could not imagine the horror of being  chosen, and being expected to be grateful for it, through a form of lottery, to bring my child, my baby, to die hung from an oak tree,  in order to bring prosperity to the region. I wanted to know more. So many Georgian songs are connected with the ritual of child birth and protection against evil forces it was fascinating to be able to see for myself the place where, according to Christian propaganda, these rituals took place.


Only one hour into our 3 hour journey, the car now sounded like it belonged on a formula one race track and the exhaust fumes filled the inside so that, even with the windows wide open, I felt sick. I knew it was bad, and dangerous but, the driver, who had picked up the severed exhaust pipe, reassured me that it was not. I became increasingly anxious and insisted that we turn around and return to Zugdidi. Curiosity about ancient rituals at the monastery was not a big enough force to risk my life. I had my own son back at home that I wished to see again. The irony of the situation did not escape me, I had survived the white mini-bus ride only to potentially be killed by a mad Georgian driver in a hire a day taxi! Pretty soon the other passengers realised I was  distressed and so it was decided to stop at the very next garage and get the missing exhaust piece welded back on.


This happened pretty quickly. The stopping I mean, not the welding, and at this point nature called so my companion and I set off to find the facilities.


Imagine a lean-to. Imagine a lean-to with an ill-fitting slatted door painted with a cross. Imagine a lean-to with an ill-fitting slatted door perched on a semi-concrete block with a hole punched into it. Imagine the concrete block perched over an open hole.  Imagine the heat. Imagine the heat combined with the smell and then imagine being inside the lean-to, squatting, having taking a huge breath before you went in and hoping against hope you have enough air in your lungs to last the time it takes you to pee. Bear in mind you have been holding your bladder for the last hour.


There was no way I was going in there.  My companion, made of sturdier stuff and with a bigger lung capacity than me, did.


Lean – to


Ramshackle shack.

Holy door swings

On rusting crooked hinges.


My friend,

Braver than I



Frown of concentration lines her face and

Trying not to breathe more than once

Like a swimmer deep diving she

Gulps air, rushes in




Quick, quick!


I pee round the back.

The gaping hole,

Yawning chasm

Of shit

Stares at me from

Underneath the

Crumbling concrete

Block as I, distracted, am

Stung by a nettle that

Lurks there.