The old town of Tbilisi

I love wandering the streets of the old town in Tbilisi. Not the streets which have been smartly renovated, and are now crammed with cafés. Rather those that have not been renovated, with their uniquely Georgian style and charm. With their often brightly coloured facades and balconies, sometimes going right the way round the building, and the colourful plants that twine among them, they give the streets a feel of romance. Many of the streets are shabby and dilapidated, the houses cracked and broken, beyond repair in some cases. If to the outside visitor they appear picturesque, to the residents they probably seem draughty and uncomfortable, images of poverty rather than of charm.

I find it peculiar that these beautiful, albeit rundown streets of central Tbilisi are not more attractive to better-off residents of the city. Rather, it is the Vera, Vake and Saburtalo districts, with their modern apartment blocks, that are favoured by the smart Tbilisi elite. In some cities, such as Zagreb, it has been the newly prosperous, the advertising executives and bankers, moving into the older central districts, buying up from impoverished residents who could not afford the maintenance or renovation of their buildings, that has been an important dynamo for restoration and repair. Not so Tbilisi.

For all the charm of the ramshackle dwellings in Tbilisi’s old town, they must of course be renovated, and in some cases, unfortunately, the only solution is to tear them down. The main hope is that the rebuilding will be done sensitively, in keeping with the style and traditions of these neighbourhoods; that there will be the same attention to detail, for example in the often ornate trellises around the balconies.

Some recent constructions give cause for concern about the aesthetic taste of the current leadership. The gaudy footbridge over the Mt'k'vari river is placed right next to the old town, below the castle, and surrounded on all sides by fine old churches. Some modern constructions built among older buildings, such as the pyramid at the Louvre, seem inspired. This bridge seems horribly out of place. When I first saw it, I thought it looked like a sea monster, or a giant slug. More disrespectful Tbilisi residents dubbed it “the tampon”. And then there is the president’s residence, a rip-off of the Reichstag. Perhaps the policeman who tried to stop me photographing the residence was actually motivated by embarrassment.

The president's residence, behind the giant slug bridge

There is a place in Tbilisi for larger, more monumental buildings, around Rustaveli and the squares at either end. The beauty of the narrow streets of the old town is in their small-scale simplicity. For now, I am grateful I can enjoy walking those streets, aware that they will not for long be as are now.

Post-industrial wastelands

Tbilisi nowadays is a scene of feverish construction and renovation work. Spending time there, a visitor can easily be seduced by the obvious progress being made. Over recent years, the city has visibly changed for the better, even if not all the new landmark constructions are to everybody’s taste. It is not only the appearance. Chic new cafés have appeared, and new restaurants appealing to more exotic tastes, such as Japanese and Thai. In spite of problems, and despite the nearby Russian threat, Tbilisi is a city on the up.

And the same can be said for one or two other towns in Georgia. Central Batumi is a building site, with tall buildings going up along the seafront that seem to be more Dubai than Black Sea. As in Tbilisi, perhaps even more so given that it is concentrated in a much smaller town, the gardens and fountains, the cafés, all give an impression of rising prosperity.

But travelling across Georgia, the country in between Batumi and Tbilisi presents a different picture, which reminds of how much hardship the country has endured, and continues to endure. Following the end of the Soviet Union, and the collapse of the Soviet market, most of Georgia’s economic base was wiped out, almost at a stroke. The series of wars, civil strife and near anarchy of the early 1990s, and the decent of the country more or less into a failed state, added to the woe. The visible legacy of this is the industrial wasteland around several towns across Georgia, industrial zones that no longer have any industry, just the skeletal remains of industrial buildings. On my first visit to Georgia, at the end of 2003, I was told one of Georgia’s main exports was scrap metal from its abandoned factories. Another major export has been its people, who left in droves in the 1990s, unable to make any kind of living in their homeland.

Six years ago, as an election observer, I spent a few days in the western town of Samtredia, the ugliest town in Georgia I was informed by our interpreter, who hailed from Tbilisi. Yes, our driver, a native of Samtredia, agreed readily, smilingly, almost proudly, Samtredia was indeed the ugliest town in Georgia. Driving through the town’s former industrial zone, we passed acres of decay and decrepitude; tumbled-down warehouses and factories, their windows smashed, ceilings falling in; twisted, rusted metal and old bits of machinery. And among all this were people, somehow scratching a minimal living in this de-industrialised wilderness.

And yet I and my colleagues enjoyed wonderful hospitality in Samtredia. Right there, at polling stations in amongst that wasteland, we were offered food and wine, coffee, and, on a couple of occasions, even marriage (surely a sign of desperation, even if delivered with a smile). One evening in Samtredia, we were invited to a party at a local restaurant. There we were treated to a typically Georgian, gargantuan spread, complete with the obligatory toasts, to which I was able to respond with genuine warmth and emotion, so moved was I by our welcome.

And there are many other towns depressing to visitors, much like Samtredia. This trip, I stopped briefly in Khashuri, a town in central Georgia, a grim, dusty, dilapidated place, with almost nothing I could see to provide relief and give its residents cheer. The obligatory fountain, almost identical to ones placed in towns around Georgia under President Saakashvili, designed, no doubt, as a simple, quick measure to brighten places up and make their people feel a little better, seemed out of place to me, as if mocking its dismal surroundings. What can it be like to live in such a place?

And yet, as I found in Samtredia, some do manage to keep their spirits alive. But the people of Samtredia, Khashuri, and other towns in a similar plight deserve better. The spending being lavished on Tbilisi and Batumi should be shared around a bit more evenly.