In a country that does not exist

Wednesday morning Jonathan (who works in the conflict zones) and I boarded a small plane from Tbilisi headed for a country that does not officially exist. When I learned that he was working in Abkhazia I became so interested that he promised to take me along on a mission. Somehow, he made it happen and I was able to spend 5 days there. After the short plane ride to Kutaisi we got on a military helicopter with two other passengers headed to Sokhumi, the capital of Abkhazia. The trip only took an hour but brought us into a different world.

From the helicopter I saw the green waters of the Black Sea, long beaches, and endless palm trees and plants. It looked like a tropical resort. When we got closer, I saw a hint of the other dominating aspect of the territory: abandoned houses, overgrown with grass, empty, burnt, unmistakable wounds of the war between Georgia and Abkhazia in 1992-93. We were welcomed by an El Salvadorian landing assistant—the first representative of the international community stationed in Abkhazia. R, the local UNICEF assistant, drove us to the UN compound. The compound is comprised of a couple of old Soviet hotel buildings turned offices and rooms for the international staff. There was also a club room, a basketball court, and a small chapel. About 50 UN vehicles were parked at the entrance and our car was checked with a metal detector for bombs as we entered. At first, the security procedures and military presence in the areas were strange but only after a few days it felt customary…

In the evening, we met up with a group of people stationed in Sokhumi and went for dinner across the street. There was a Swede, a Dane working as an observer for UNOMIG, an American, some British military who had been stationed in the Kodori Gorge where there was a great deal of tension recently and a risk of a revival of the war that ended 14 years ago. The following morning, R, J and I had a big day ahead. We were meeting with the Minister of Health of the de facto Abkhaz Government. Together, we were going to assess a health point an hour from Sokhumi. He seemed like a very important man when I was introduced to him, smoking up a storm and looking here and there. He drove in a separate car. We were also joined by an engineer and some other people I never managed to identify.

Driving to the health point we passed dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of abandoned houses. When the Abkhaz started an offensive against the Georgians in 1993, 250,000 Georgians fled the country, never to return. They continue to live as internally displaced people in Georgia. Their homes are like ghosts of a reality that must be hard to forget.

The health point serves 10,000 people and really has nothing other than a large building. The downstairs houses the rooms of a gynaecologist, an empty lab, two dental rooms. They have hardly any equipment. It is hot and stuffy. The bed is more like a plank. Upstairs the situation is worse, with little other than a water tank to boast of. Some of the rooms are burnt, others are filled with dust. There is only an outdoor toilet surrounded by medical waste. But the staff, in part, made up for the bad conditions. They seemed competent and caring. They seemed to be able, still, to do a good job, though they could do far more with better facilities. We had an hour meeting with the Minister of Health doing most of the talking while puffing numerous cigarettes.

After the meeting we were all invited to the home of a villager to celebrate the “accomplishment” (UNICEF will be working with the Ministry of Health to supply the facility with the most urgent material and physical needs). What met us at the village house was worthy of many gasps. The garden was beautiful, offering much of natures bounties, including figs, nuts, corn. The table inside was decked for 25 people literally in layers: watermelon, fruits, cheeses, local maize dish, eggplant, goat, chicken, cheese, salad, rice dish, grape puree, bread, chachapuri, and varieties of drinks. Each had two plates and glasses. We sat down though may have thought twice had we known we would not be getting up again for the next five and a half hours, with no exaggeration. We ate, and ate, and ate some more. Toasting began after 5 minutes and ended at the end of the meal. It would be a disgrace, R told us, not to prepare such an extravaganza with the presence of the Minister of Health. Indeed, when we drove into the village several people bowed when they saw his car.


Toasts were given to children, to health, to the town leader (who looked more like a playboy than a politician), to the Minister, to the village. Then, the town leader decided it was time for a toast for me and J. I could do little else but sit still in my chair while everybody stared(I was the only woman at the table—an exception to the all-male rule, since I was a guest). He praised me for my work for children (little did he know I was only there to observe), and dozens of other kind words. The Minister of Health eventually chimed in and asked if I was single. When I answered in the affirmative he decided there should be a lottery the following day, and I should choose an Abkhaz husband. “Kharasho” (good) I responded, imagining the pool of 60-year old Abkhaz bachelors. J was offered to choose an Abkhaz wife the following day in his toast. It was one of the most hilarious and fun moments. We were also asked to give toasts. After the endless meal ordeal we said our goodbyes and headed back to our compound.

The next day R, J and I went touring. We swam in a stream that had about 5 degrees Celsius temp. It filled us with life. Later we drove to lake Ritza where we encountered a band of Russian Hare Krishnas. J found them entirely obnoxious—I was compelled to buy their CD, much to J’s and R’s distress… In the evening there was Karaoke on the compound—with Jamaicans, our Swede and an Australian as the main stars. I tried to sing along with Carl Gustav on “Obladi Oblada” but can’t say I was really able to follow.