I still have several sets of photos from a number of events that I meant to record in my blog but never got around to during my travels. I am now getting sick for the first time since I've been back in the US, very conveniently on my three day weekend, allowing me some extra time to sit back and catch up on my reflections of this trip.
I was still under the impression that my father was capable of some kind of human interaction and logical pursuit of results in the realm of daily life. Because he failed to obtain a document without my accompaniment, I decided to escort him once again into Akhaltsikhe, the nearby town that housed all the banks, markets and government institutions for the surrounding provinces. I felt my presence expedited the completion and collection of all needed paperwork.
Upon reflection I realize more fully that it was wrong to want anything of my father, just as it was wrong of him to want anything of me. The shower lady infected me with the idea that I must coerce my father into filing his house under my name so that I become the rightful owner of it even during his lifetime. She brought up a good point; he has done nothing for me in the duration of 19 years, he might as well give me something to show that he supports and cares for me. This good point was what I was to leverage against my father to persuade him to switch his house into my name.
Her idea seemed like a sinister plot at the time, so many Agatha Christie novels were centered around a will, the passing of property from one member of the family to another. I sensed it was the wrong approach but I went with it. The propelling force was my enamored state with the country that I saw before me. The land was truly beautiful and I was possessed with the desire to be able to come back there someday with my family and feel at home.
To say that I had to coerce my father into giving me his house is an over statement. In fact, my father had often spoken of giving me that house without any prompting from me. The difference was that I did not actually have any intent to take him up on his offer until the lady suggested I should be more proactive in the transaction. But hearing my father make statements exulting me as the owner of his house many times and the advice of leading my father towards the fruition of his promise combined to give me a sense of determination on the topic.
The idea that my father would give me a summer house in a beautiful land also seemed appealing because it would prove that my father is not the monster my mother has painted him to be all these years. There was plenty of evidence to give me the notion that the idea was ridiculous, but I was in denial. I was also looking for a way to spend the rest of my vacation time there on good terms with my father, and this seemed like the perfect twist to get me out of the bleak situation I found myself in. I thought he would absolve himself in the duration of the time we'd spend together getting something done that's concrete and beneficial to me.
Although my plan came to a screeching stop, I am happy that I took on this venture because though my several travels into Akhaltsikhe with Ares (my father), I grew to know him better and many of my suspicions of his flawed character were dissolved into a sobering clarity of the reality of the situation.
Upon the second trip we rode again with a shuttle driver whose nickname was The Pilot. The Pilot let the shuttle get crammed full of people. Because everyone knew I was a visitor I got to sit in the front seat and share it with another lady that usually owns that privilege. Lucky for me; others stood upright, hunching their shoulders and heads to fit under the low roof. It was hot, crowded, stinky with body odor and it was incredibly fun and terrifying at the same time.
The road was full of curves and corners around which you could not see, dented with lake size pot holes and lacking in any traffic signs, signals or lines. Often, cars drove on the wrong side of the street to avoid pitting into the immense potholes. Cows and other forms of cattle often stood in the roadway, along with chickens and dogs trying to attack the oncoming traffic. As we passed villages, people walked in the narrow streets, crossed them, stood on the sidelines. And with all this going on, surprisingly, I witnessed no accidents.
The Pilot has driven this same route for many years and knew it like the back of his hand, and so he flew through this chaos like a bullet in the old, Soviet era shuttle, crammed full of people like sardines in a can, rattling around in joyful discomfort. Everyone else seemed calm and confident in their survival of this trip, I on the other hand was fearful for my life. I enjoyed the quirky trip tremendously in its tumultuous joy of life. People called out for where they wanted to be dropped off, and as the passengers in the back tumbled over bags and people in their way and passengers in the front got off to make room in the doorway for an exit and got back on, the Pilot kept saying "chega, chega" which meant "free, free" to the extended hands with pay for the fare. He took no payments from anyone, the lady next to me started snatching the payments out of people's hands and throwing the money onto his dashboard saying to me, "how's he going to pay for his food if he never takes any payments?"
This wonderful, warmhearted, jolly man ended up taking my father and I on a trip up to the Rabati Castle during his layover between routes in the city, needless to say, for free. The Rabati castle was recently restored by the government to increase tourism. However, when we went there it was completely empty.
