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Their Job Is Not to Let Georgians In
Kommersant Vlast presents a new report about adjacent regions of Russia’s neighboring countries. Vlast correspondent Boris Volkhonsky have made a tour of the Black Sea coast of Abkhazia and found people living close to us who still dream about joining Russia, not separating from it.
Their Job Is Not to Let Georgians In
“Why on Earth are you going there?” my relatives got afraid when I told them I was going on holiday to Abkhazia. The conversation took place in the heat of the developments in the Kodori Gorge.
Fears of my nearest and dearest were groundless. Over two weeks spent in the Caucasus I saw something similar to hostilities only once. And that happened on the day of my arrival to the airport in Sochi. My wife and I had to withstand a real siege of numerous flat brokers and local taxi drivers who offered their services in an eager rivalry. First, we were explaining politely – and then just plainly – that we had a room booked at a hotel and a transfer to the place.
No one picked us up, though. There was no one on the square in front of the airport waiting for us with a sign with our names or with the name of the hotel. After an hour wait in the scorching sun, futile calls to the Moscow tourist company and talks with seasoned holiday makers we learnt that there was an easy way to get to the place. We could take a bus to the border which runs along the Psou River, cross the frontier on foot and then take a bus there to Gudauta. We did so.
A bus ticket from the airport to the border (which is more than 10 km) cost 75 rubles. There was a traffic jam on the road near the border.
“Does everybody need to get to that side?” the driver asked.
Everyone did, so he took us on an alternative route on earth roads and pulled up by the railroad embankment.
“Cross the railroad and you’ll see the way then,” the driver said.
We took those guerrilla paths that ran along humble kiosks and found ourselves in a long narrow passage enclosed by a corrugated iron fence. Here we had to repel an attack of men with trolleys who offered to take our luggage across the border for 50 rubles for each trunk.
We had to walk some 300 meters in the corridor up to a barn which turned out to be the customs building. The luggage was taken through the X-ray but apparently customs officers did not care about it. However, they asked an elderly local woman with a white sack:
“Are you carrying anything illegal?”
“Oh no, God save you,” she replied, and they let her go through the customs.
We found ourselves behind that woman again in a line to a border check-point.
“What’s that? Flour?” I asked, pointing to the sack.
“No, it’s sugar,” she responded. “I bought it for 1,200 rubles. The wine season is about to start. Berries are ripening as well.”
“You don’t have sugar in Abkhazia, do you?”
“We have everything but prices are much higher than in Russia.”
“I must say I hoped to enjoy cheap fruit here!”
“Fruit?” she said, showing to her trolley where another sack with something big and round was lying on the sack of sugar. “I’m taking water melons for my granddaughter. They are ten rubles for a kilo there and five rubles in Russia.”
“Do you often come here?”
“Not very often. It’s the first time since the start of the mimosa season.”
An elderly man was standing behind us in the line. He had a trolley, loaded to the top. A few holiday makers were standing near.
“This is my third trip here today,” he said.
“Do you go here and there all day?”
“It’s my job. I come as often as I need to. But no matter how many times a day I cross the border, the guards always scrutinize my passport.”
“What kind of passport do you have?”
“Russia’s foreign one. We also have old Soviet ones, and we have recently received Abkhazian, but they are valid only in Abkhazia.”
An ordinary internal Russian passport is enough to cross the border, but I gave my foreign passport and asked to have a stamp there. A customs officer refused point-blank:
“You’ll make it at the Abkhazian frontier guards’.”
We walked across the bridge across the Psou River and found ourselves on the Abkhazian territory. There is a duty free shop with a usual selection of tobacco and spirits before the bridge. My hope to get a stamp at the crossing of the border shattered once I glanced at the Abkhazian check-point. A young man in uniform was sitting alone in a small and narrow booth. Sometimes he called people passing by in a bored voice. My wife and I stopped as law-abiding citizens. But as he was scrutinizing our passports, some ten people went by. Of course, the guy did not have any stamp.
Later, a new friend of mine, an Abkhazian manager at a tourist company, explained to me:
“Their only job is not to let Georgians in. They may have as well let you go without stopping. But they normally stop all black-haired and tanned.” He also told me a story about his experience. “Once I was guiding tourists from Sochi, and there was a woman in the group who was Russian but she had a Georgian surname – her husband’s. They did not let her it. I had to apologize and return her money.”
Don’t Judge the Whole Abkhazia by Gudauta
The first feeling that you get once you have stepped on the Abkhazian land is shock. Certainly, I was ready to see ruin and devastation, absence of infrastructure, but I did not expect this picture. House without glass panes, roofs; just bare walls that stick out in the center of abandoned gardens – this is the view that goes all the way and gets worse as the border is left behind. The road from the frontier up to Gagra is quite decent, glittering with new white marking. After that are ruts and pits. At this background, brand new monuments strike the eye as they stand in every town and almost every village with the figures of 1992-1993, the date of the Georgian-Abkhazian war.
Gudauta (some 50 km away from the border) was the first destination. A bus driver charged us 70 rubles for a trip as tourists. Locals paid 60 rubles. When you look at the city not from a bus window, signs of devastation just glare. Once a beautiful building of in early 20th century have only walls left, and there are trees that have grown inside of it over the past 13 years. Concrete frameworks of high rises are bare – they are either not built, or abandoned and looted. Somewhere near empty frames you can see new glass-panes. A rusty train stands at a shabby railway station. Old Soviet resorts with old street lamps without bulbs or shades are rotting. Electricity and water cut-offs are routine here. The pinnacle of ruin is a huge 20-storey building that you can see through. Only the top floor has glass panes, and the roof is in antennas.
“They started building it back in Soviet time,” a manager at my hotel explained. “They did not have time to finish the construction, and as it is the highest building in the city, the local phone company, Aquafon is using it now.”
I thought that the military also use the building but the manager preferred not to speak about it.
The beach in Gudauta is empty. There are not problems to rent a room. “To let” signs are in every window.
Gudauta has never been a resort,” Grach Kosyan, a resident of Gagra, owner of a tourist company, told me. “You can’t judge the whole Abkhazia by it. Many things have been restored in Gagra and there is hardly any vacant property left. Russians are vigorously buying up flats, houses as well as former resort homes and hotels. Real estate prices are going up every year. After the war you could buy a flat for some $700, now a two-room flat will cost you $10,000 - $15,000, depending on the area and the flat.
“Well, but still there are many destroyed houses in Gagry.”
“Oh yeah, this is a consequence of war.”
“But the war ended 13 years ago.”
“But after that we had an economic blockade. The frontier was closed. No one would come here for a few years after this because people were scared. Later, they started to come – first, for tours. When people saw that it is calm and safe here; holiday makers started to come and stay for a while. Tourism started to grow only in the late 1990s. The peak was in 2004 and 2005. It was virtually impossible to rent a room in Gagra last year, even in the areas far from the sea. This year, however, there are fewer holiday makers.
“Is it because of developments in the Kodori Gorge?”
“Mainly, it is. There are two factors. First, media have blown the topic out of proportion, and people are afraid to come. Second, flat brokers go on trains that go to Sochi starting and convince the passengers that the place where they are going to is dangerous. They shoot, kill, rob and rape there, those swindlers say. Quite a number of people give in and get off, not reaching Adler.”
“What does it cost now to rent a room?”
“It depends. It is 200 rubles a day in my street [Grach Kosyan lives in a street that goes along the Sochi-Sukhumi road, 100 meters from the sea].”
I have to admit that there are fewer half-destructed and abandoned houses in Gagra than in Gudauta, even though there are still many of them.
Pitsunda is probably the only place in Abkhazia where destruction is not so glaring. Seven blocks of the old sanatorium in the resort zone are maintained quite decently as it was in the Soviet time. The Box-Tree Grove hotel of an international level has been built a few meters away from the famous resort zone.
Economic Blockade Is On; What’s More, We Have Pirates
Even Gudauta’s devastation wanes in your memory when you enter Abkhazia’s capital, Sukhumi. A few kilometers from the city the road turns from the sea and approaches Sukhumi from the mountains. Later, the road run a few kilometers through neighborhoods of one- and two-storey houses. It feels like there is not a single intact house here.
“It was the place of the fiercest fighting,” an elderly curator of the National Museum explained to me. There is only one room working in the museum’s second floor which is dedicated to modern history. The room covers developments of 1992 – 1993. “Something was destroyed in fights. Later, Georgians set houses of Abkhazians on fire. When Abkhazians went back, they burnt down many houses of Georgians. I still live in a house that used to belong to Georgians. My house was burnt down.”
Abkhazia, the best hotel in the city, glares with its empty windows. In front of it you can see the building of the port built in the shape of a giant liner. A small vessel under the Turkish flag is standing alone in the port.
“How many ships come to the port?” I asked Larik Smyr, head of the port.
“Half as much as it was last year. Last year, we had some one hundred, and this year we had only 30-40 in the first six months.”
“Who do these vessels belong to?”
“There are mostly Turkish. Not a single ship which flies the Abkhazian flag is admitted to any port. Vessels of other countries don’t come because the economic blockade is still on. Besides, we have pirates.”
The head of the port referred to Georgian military ships which stand in open sea and often stop vessels that violate the blockade of Abkhazia.
“Does Abkhazia have its own fleet?” I asked the deputy director of the Abkhazian steam navigation, Dzhinar Karal-ogly.
“We had a few vessels which were able to fly the Soviet flag for some time. Two times a week, there were trips to the Turkish port of Trabzon. There were Sochi-Gagra-Pitsunda cutters. A part of the fleet was hijacked. The great deal of it is idle. Out of all Abkhazian fleet, only a couple of cutters are used for tours to Gagra and Pitsunda.
“Why the largest part of the vessels is Turkish?”
“They are smart guys, Turks,” Karal-ogly said. “Naval transportation became very expensive, and the largest part of cargoes from Russia goes by railroad.”
“What do you bring in and sell abroad?”
“We export timber, mostly beech which is used in the production of parquet, furniture and veneer sheet. We also export coal. We import Russian gasoline, and we do it through Romania, and food. We used to import much of sugar but prices are equating now, so it is not so profitable. You know Abkhazia may as well survive even in a complete blockade. We didn’t starve even during the war. We have everything here – crops, fruit, vegetables, meat, wine and honey.”
The thing that they do not have in Akhazia is jobs. And those who work get partly salaries. An average wage is between 300 and 400 rubles. Pensions are 100 rubles. Therefore, an overwhelming majority strive to get Russian pensions where the minimum is 1,000 rubles. Grach Kosyan, a qualified doctor with 20 years of experience, gets some 1,000 rubles a month, so he takes a holiday in summer to run his tourism business. “Well, we may have been left our jobs with such salaries. We have everything,” a woman told me. “But sometimes we need to buy something that does not grow here – sugar, clothes. We also have to pay electricity bills.”
Why Does Russia Not Act Like the US?
Abkhazians are very friendly and sociable. Complete strangers came up to me on buses, at cafes or just in the streets, and we made friends in ten minutes. Most of them work in tourism. It is no wonder. Tourism is the second revenue article in Abkhazia’s budget alongside agriculture.
After a few deserving compliments about beautiful scenery and friendly local people, conversation usually turned to the topic of the burden of war and future outlook.
“It will be the same in Abkhazia as in Kosovo. They will recognize our independence sooner or later,” said Yury, a guide who I met on a bus from Gagra to Gudaut.
“But there is a small difference,” I noted. “In the Balkan conflict, the United Sates actually side with Kosovo, and they are with Georgia in the Georgian-Abkhazian one.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Yury agreed. “But why does Russia not act like the US? It doesn’t take much. They just need to push a bit, and Georgia will not make a sound.”
“Okay, let’s suppose that Abkhazia’s independence will be recognized. What happens next? Will the country remain independent or join Russia?”
“First, we’ve got to get the independence, and then we’ll see. I’m not a politician but I think that some eighty percent of people want Abkhazia to join Russia.”
I discussed Russia’s stance in the Georgian-Abkhazian conflict with a colonel of the Abkhazian army who preferred to be unidentified. It is not because he is from the intelligence. He just seeks Russian pension and does not want that Russian authorities know that he serves in the Abkhazian army. The colonel made it quite clear:
“There are no legal grounds for Abkhazia to remain a part of Georgia. We can refer to two documents – the first one on Abkhazia’s entering the Russian empire in 1810 (we entered it as an independent principality) and the second is Stalin’s decree creating the autonomy – and everything will be clear. Basically, we could settle the issue by military means in three days. We withstood in 1992-1993 when we virtually had no weapons. Now that we have everything – tanks and jets – there will be no problems.
“What do you mean ‘settle the issue’?”
“I mean free the Kodori Gorge.”
“I’ve been told that you can’t pass there, and fifteen people on the narrow road can stop a 1,000 army.”
“I won’t go into military details, but I can assure you that there is a way to free the gorge and restore Abkhazia’s territorial integrity in three days.”
“What’s the problem then?”
“Well, for the time being, we are giving politicians a chance to settle the issue with political means. But we won’t be waiting for long.”
“Will politicians succeed, do you reckon?”
“I have no idea. I really don’t understand Russia’s position. We, Abkhazians, have been with Russia since ancient times. But today’s Russia often makes advances to Georgia though Tbilisi’s stance is getting more anti-Russian every day.”
If They're Back, I’ll Tear Them to Pieces with My Hands
The only topic that can distemper Abkhazians is the national one. Once you mention Georgia or Georgians, the Abkhazian friendliness vanishes. I was talking about different passports that the republic’s residents hold, and I asked a man:
“Does anyone in Abkhazia have Georgian passports?”
“Do I look like a Georgian, do I?” the man’s voice went up so did the bus which got into another rut. The conversation stopped at that.
“Fascists” is probably the most frequent word that I heard Abkhazians referring to Georgians.
“What other name can we give to them after they burnt a helicopter carrying kids?” a nurse who was making a bandage for me exclaimed [the contingent of holiday makers in Abkhazia is 100 percent Russians, and shattered glass is usual on the beach].
The woman was referring to an incident that happened in December 1992 when Georgian troops shot down a helicopter that was taking women and children away from the besieged Tkvarcheli. 84 people died in the crash.
The hatred towards Georgians can be seen in languages as well. Georgian words have been erased or painted over on signboards left from the Soviet times. Not a single Abkhazian would call the republic’s capital Sukhumi – only Sukhum, which is not Abkhazian, actually. Akua is the Abkhazian word, but Sukhum does not sound Georgian anyway. A number of towns and villages that had Georgian names in the Soviet times have been renamed. In other cases, people use Abkhazian versions of names, for example, Tkuarchal instead of Tkvarcheli.
First, I thought that some Georgian words such as khachapuri, khinkali and sulunguni – that entered the basic Russian vocabulary have remained. I was mistaken.
“Khachapuri! Khachapuri!” a woman was crying out at a small market in Novy Afon. She carried on: “Come on, have some khachapury! How many khachapurov do you want? Two khachapur?”
Obviously, it was her personal system of noun declension.
There is a monument in central Sukhum (I got used to this name over my two weeks there) with bullets marks.
“Who is Efrem Eshaba?” I asked a black-clad Abkhazian woman who was sweeping the sidewalk near the pedestal.
“An Abkhazian,” she gave an expected answer.
“Well, was he a military man or, say, author?”
“A king,” the woman said with pride in her voice. In fact, Efrem Eshba was a revolutionist who died in a purge in the 1930s, as I learnt later.
“What are these holes?”
“Georgians were shooting.” The woman could not constrain herself any longer: “These are Fascists! Fascists! I have been wearing black for fifteen years. Two my sons were killed. If Georgians are back, I’ll tear them to pieces with my hands. Once I hear Georgian speech I will not retreat. I’ll be eating them alive.”
Pay to Everyone, and You’ll End Up with Nothing for Yourself
As we learnt the lesson of crossing the Abkhazian border in the scorching heat we hired a porter to carry our luggage for 100 rubles on the way back. It was 11 o’clock in the morning, and it was his second job that day.
Approaching the Abkhazian check-point I saw an Abkhazian girl who put her bag on our trolley and exchanged a few words with the porter. Abkhazian border guards paid no attention to us, and I even managed to take pictures of the frontier, which is strictly prohibited.
The bridge across the Psou was behind, and the Russian check-point was before us. We could see from first glance that the filbert season had begun. Apart from holiday makers, residents of Abkhazia with sacks filled with nuts on trolleys were lining for passport control. The Abkhazian girl whose bag was with our things looked around and asked me:
“Can you take the bag across the border as if it was yours?”
“What’s there inside?”
“Don’t be scared. It’s only nuts. Help yourself, please!”
“Why can’t you take it yourself?” I asked.
“It is the second time that I’m crossing the border. They remember me. But they will have no questions to you. Just tell them you bought it for 100 rubles for a kilo.”
“How much are you allowed to take?”
“No more than 50 kilos. Otherwise, we have to file a permit and pay a duty. If you pay to everyone, you’ll end up with nothing left for yourself.”
“What is the price difference?”
“They are 90-95 rubles for a kilo in Abkhazia, and 130 rubles across the Russian border.”
It seemed to be I was the only volunteer to help the girl. She often came up to people in the line asking the same favor. After talking to someone she went back enraged:
“Bloody people! Russia never refuse. But ours…”
Indeed, customs officers paid no attention to 5 kilos of nuts that I smuggled. But the Abkhazian girl disappeared.
“You do good to people, and they don’t pay back,” the porter grunted.
We gave him a chance to sort out his problems and wait for the girl – all the more, she first agreed the matter with him, not with us. We went to the bus station. There were only four people going to the airport. My wife, me and two young women –one Russian and one Abkhazian. The latter was worried if she would be able to take 12 bottles of wine on board with her.
We took a taxi to the airport, left luggage at the check-room and went to walk around Sochi. The way to the city gave me a feeling quite opposite to the one that I had entering Abkhazia. I have hardly seen so many luxurious villas with glittering paint and multi-colored tiles anywhere in the world, though I have never been to Cannes or Malibu.
We had a couple of hours before the flight. We stopped at the hotel which was reputed the best in Sochi in the Soviet times. We walked along the embankment where traders were selling tourist odds and ends – everything from pumpkin seeds to exotic shells. We drank juice in a street café (200 rubles for each), went down to the beach where there was no place not only to lay a towel but to put a foot on. Yet, we took a bath in the sea, stirred up by numerous sweaty bodies. I don’t know why but a thought crossed my mind: are Abkhazians fully aware of all delights of living in Russia that they are dreaming to join?
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Abkhazia – between Russia and Georgia
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Abkhazia entered the Russian empire in February 1810. Responding to an appeal of Abkhazian Prince Georgy Chachba-Shervashidze, Russian Emperor Alexander I issued a manifesto proclaiming the annexation of Abkhazia and promising patronage to the region. Abkhazia stayed in the Russian empire as autonomy with self-government up to 1864.
After the Russian empire collapsed, Abkhazia briefly entered the Mountainous Republic of the Northern Caucasus (May 1918). In July 1918, it joined the Georgian Democratic Republic after a short military campaign.
The Abkhazian Soviet Socialist Republic was proclaimed in March 1921. In December, Abkhazia entered the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic after concluding a federation decree with on equal rights for Georgia and Abkhazia. In 1931, Abkhazia’s status was degraded to that of autonomy.
As the USSR split, the Supreme Court of Abkhazia announced in July 1992 that it had invalidated the 1978 constitution of the Abkhazian Soviet Republic and restored the constitution of 1925, proclaiming the republic’s sovereignty. The Georgian-Abkhazian war started on August 14. Georgian troops occupied Sukhumi and a number of other cities. Gudauta became a temporary capital. Hostilities ended in September 1993 when Abkhazian authorities gained control over the territory of the whole republic, expect for the Kodori Gorge. On April 4, 1994, a declaration on the political settlement of the Georgian-Abkhazian conflict and an agreement on refugees and their return were signed in Moscow. A peace keeping operation of Russian troops began in the conflict zone that summer.
The war is estimated to have claimed 13,000 lives. 200,000 people became refugees. The pre-war population of Abkhazia exceeded 500,000 people. Now it is only 300,000.
Abkhazian authorities held a referendum in 1999 where 97.5 percent voted for the republic’s independence. However, the vote results were not recognized by any country.
by
Boris Volkhonsky
All the Article in Russian as of Aug. 28, 2006
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