Wine and Weapons in the other Georgia

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You can spot the Abanotubani bathhouse district by its upside down brick teacup domes. Built in the 17th and 18th centuries, royalty and locals have long enjoyed the healing qualities of the natural hot stinky sulphur springs that feed the mosaic pools in a the traditional bathhouses. Writers too, like Dumas and Pushkin, and now myself, butt-naked for the cameras and sweating from the heat, even as my body sits submerged in water. I’ve waited a long time for my first full Turkish-like bath experience, so I have no idea what to expect when I get summoned to an adjoining marble room. A man tells me to lie on my stomach, and the moment I do, he proceeds to scrub the living crap out of me. Doused in hot water, he next walks up and down my back, before taking a coarse rope to exfoliate my inner organs. I turn over and he proceeds to scrub my chest so hard my nipples barely hold their grip. I have to clutch my crotch in a protective manner, an action that my future children should be grateful for. Another bucket follows of hot sulphur water over my head, stinging fresh, raw skin. I recently read a book called The Dirt on Clean, learning about the fascinating history of hygiene. Did you know Romans never used soap, preferring to scrape the skin with an instrument called the strigil? Did you know that Americans considered warm or hot baths effeminate for men, or that 17th century royalty bathed just a handful of times in their entire lives? Public bathhouses have been popular since the Romans, a central meeting point open everyone across the social ladder. When the plague hit Europe, medical geniuses at the time shut down the bathhouses to stop the spread of the infection. In fact, it might well have helped rid people of the fleas carrying the problem in the first place. Still, Georgia’s position as a crossroads on the Silk Road, infusing European, Asian and Islamic customs, ensured that bathhouses continue to exist today.

My washing continues with a soapy foam that gets deeply massaged into my body, (and my mouth) before I get rinsed once more and the ordeal is over. Never have I felt so clean, so utterly devoid of dirt. As I leave the Erekle Bathhouse, a Georgian rugby team are waiting in the dark, musky foyer. A dozen huge sweaty men, ready to strip naked and soak their battered skin in the same pool from which I had just emerged. Timing, my friends, is everything.

For this episode, we’re investigating stories of Georgia’s past, present and future. The night we arrive, local rock bands put on a show for us, as Julia opens a journalistic guitar case on something called Brutal Death Metal. Not just Death mind you, but Brutal Death. The ponytailed musicians look more like computer technicians than the tattooed killers I was expecting, but along with the promoters Givi and Giorgi, they’re trying to deal with the power failure that has relegated their gig to darkness. After spending 32 hours in transit, and been practically flayed alive, the prospect of audible torture is confirmed when the lights flick on at 11pm, and the first band take to the stage. I opt out of this one, head back to the Hotel Tiflis, and lie awake on my single bed, buzzing from overstimulation. Given my hopscotch on three continents today, I can’t help but feel very far away from everything I know, and everyone I love.

Pity the Information Warrior who pleads for respite, for a sharpened battleaxe waits to tear him limb from limb. Here’s one for you: Did you know that there is a medieval martial art in Europe? As fast, deadly and intricate as karate, kung-fu, taikwando or judo, Georgian mountain warriors developed systems of self defence that gave them a reputation as being the finest fighters in Christendom, encompassing holds, grips, wrestling, boxing and a variety of vicious weapons. Under Soviet rule, in which cultural traditions were prohibited and repressed, Georgian martial arts were all but forgotten, barely kept alive by a handful of old men in the mountains. Since the early 1990’s, guys like Lasha Kobakhidze have worked hard to revive these traditions, founding a federation, opening training schools, and incorporating the various systems into a complete martial art they’ve named Khrilodi. The name comes from ceremonial wrestling tournaments in which Georgians would fight with one hand tied behind the back. Even with this disadvantage, limb breaking and serious injury were common, but I was happy to learn that today’s Khrilodi keeps the carnage to a minimum. Instead, it’s about re-establishing a national treasure, honing mind and a body. In a country that still walks the precipice of war, there’s something to be said for reintroducing an ancient custom that once made mincemeat of enemies.

Gonzo Gallery for Wine and Weapons in the other Georgia

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