Georgia

Written in Sairme, in a church in the making

Midnight approaching, we leave the turkish minibus paid for by our last truck driver. He invited us to our last turkish meal and probably the best one so far.
In front of us, the georgian border. This is unknown space, I hide all the money I can. We crossed the border drunk with Ukrainian vodka and a kebap. We met Natasha a while ago with some group of other Ukrainians and then we crossed.

God I couldn't let my eyes off the georgian women. We switched from the cloaked turkish girls to sexy border control guards in skirts, uniform and red lipstick. Cultural shock.
I should have crossed to this country illegally and try to get caught.

But let's return to our senses, this is georgia. You don't fuck with the georgians. You don't fuck with Zurab the Democrat from Samsun and there are millions of democrats here.
The border is full of taxis, real and fake ones. Two girls in overly sexy clothing pressure us to go inside. The half-drunk Ukrainian chases them away. Prostitutes at best, mafia probably.
But then again, after Turkey, all normal looking girls seem like prostitutes to us. But don't get me wrong: this is no criticism. If I, by chance, become leader of the world, I will make Tbilissi and Kiev capital of fashion and set nuke Channel, l'Oréal and Paris alltogether.

Either way for me and the vodka in my blood there is no doubt: The georgians will kill us. We must get away from this taxi infested border. So we hitchhike at night and only trucks, turkish trucks when possible.

We make our way to Kobuleti safe and sound and camp near a river. Ilona is starting to get enough of my rambling about the georgians who will murder us: "Come one what the fuck are you saying, you're supposed to be the man here? So I'm supposed to be the reassuring one here? Get a grip!"

Writing a hitchhiking sign in georgian

The morning after direction Kobuleti, city center.