By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong by Charley Boorman Page B
Authors: Charley Boorman
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the same old grey apartment blocks any more inspiring. Conscious of our afternoon train from Tbilisi, we set off early. As we left the city a police car pulled alongside: it seemed to linger in the middle of the road, the two cops looking long and hard at two guys on a Russian army motorbike.
En route to the capital we passed through Gori, the sombre-looking city where Stalin was born. After Lenin died he had systematically set about destroying anyone who didn’t agree with him; scientists, writers, artists, poets. During the great purges of the 1930s he murdered six million people and sent millions more to a living death in the gulags. It can be strange how a famous person’s home town remembers them, especially if they were a brutal dictator like Stalin. In Gori there is a massive statue of Stalin in front of the Town Hall, and his old railway carriage - green with a black roof - is on display behind a set of ornate iron railings, as part of the Stalin museum. Instead of the usual five tons it weighs around eighteen because he had it reinforced so nobody could shoot him or blow him up when he was travelling around the country.
As we had arrived in good time, we stopped to take a look round, even stepping aboard the carriage. It was strange to think the man who’d been responsible for so much suffering had eaten, slept and drunk vodka on this carriage. There was a small kitchen at one end with a metal hotplate and a metal sink, and the corridor was wood-panelled, reminding me of the Orient Express .
‘Take a look in here.’ Russ pointed out one of the two bedrooms Stalin had used. There was a bunk on the left and a desk and table, velvet curtains tied back from the windows, ornate light fittings and an air-conditioning system and beyond it was a conference room with a large table and eight chairs. There was something macabre about the opulence - knowing he must have made life and death decisions for thousands and thousands of his countrymen here, living in luxury while they starved.
The old brick house where he was born had been preserved too. It seemed to have been part of a terrace once, but it was hard to tell because it looked as though all the other houses had been torn down to make way for the museum. It was covered by a sort of concrete mausoleum that had been built to protect it from the elements.
We had been hearing explosions for some time - on the bike, while we were in the carriage and again outside Stalin’s house. We could only assume that the army, on a state of alert, was practising with big guns somewhere. It was a strangely appropriate setting; the city is overlooked by a medieval citadel, an ancient fortress with holes in the walls from decay and from battle.
‘Hey, listen to this,’ Russ said. He had just received a news text from Lucy. ‘Georgia-Russian tensions: Russia claims Georgia is massing troops in the break-away region today. It warns that it will retaliate if Georgia uses force and Georgia has reacted angrily to the statement. The EU urges caution in this area.’
Again we heard the sound of guns in the distance.
Russ was still studying his mobile. ‘Bloody hell. It’s all kicking off. Two people have been killed in Tibet: a Tibetan and a policeman. China announced thirty people have been jailed and many people are worrying that they weren’t given a fair trial.’ He lifted his eyebrows sharply. ‘That’s still to come, China and Tibet. The closer we get the less it looks like we’re going to find a way in.’
We’d had enough of Stalin and back on the Ural we quickly drove the last eighty kilometres to the capital. I was loving the bike; it was great to ride and I’d got the right-hand bends figured out now. The country was flatter and less rocky here, and the tarmac a lot smoother. The rain eased and we made good time to Tbilisi. There was no need to go straight to the station so we climbed to the Metekhi Church that overlooks the curve of the river and gives a great
En route to the capital we passed through Gori, the sombre-looking city where Stalin was born. After Lenin died he had systematically set about destroying anyone who didn’t agree with him; scientists, writers, artists, poets. During the great purges of the 1930s he murdered six million people and sent millions more to a living death in the gulags. It can be strange how a famous person’s home town remembers them, especially if they were a brutal dictator like Stalin. In Gori there is a massive statue of Stalin in front of the Town Hall, and his old railway carriage - green with a black roof - is on display behind a set of ornate iron railings, as part of the Stalin museum. Instead of the usual five tons it weighs around eighteen because he had it reinforced so nobody could shoot him or blow him up when he was travelling around the country.
As we had arrived in good time, we stopped to take a look round, even stepping aboard the carriage. It was strange to think the man who’d been responsible for so much suffering had eaten, slept and drunk vodka on this carriage. There was a small kitchen at one end with a metal hotplate and a metal sink, and the corridor was wood-panelled, reminding me of the Orient Express .
‘Take a look in here.’ Russ pointed out one of the two bedrooms Stalin had used. There was a bunk on the left and a desk and table, velvet curtains tied back from the windows, ornate light fittings and an air-conditioning system and beyond it was a conference room with a large table and eight chairs. There was something macabre about the opulence - knowing he must have made life and death decisions for thousands and thousands of his countrymen here, living in luxury while they starved.
The old brick house where he was born had been preserved too. It seemed to have been part of a terrace once, but it was hard to tell because it looked as though all the other houses had been torn down to make way for the museum. It was covered by a sort of concrete mausoleum that had been built to protect it from the elements.
We had been hearing explosions for some time - on the bike, while we were in the carriage and again outside Stalin’s house. We could only assume that the army, on a state of alert, was practising with big guns somewhere. It was a strangely appropriate setting; the city is overlooked by a medieval citadel, an ancient fortress with holes in the walls from decay and from battle.
‘Hey, listen to this,’ Russ said. He had just received a news text from Lucy. ‘Georgia-Russian tensions: Russia claims Georgia is massing troops in the break-away region today. It warns that it will retaliate if Georgia uses force and Georgia has reacted angrily to the statement. The EU urges caution in this area.’
Again we heard the sound of guns in the distance.
Russ was still studying his mobile. ‘Bloody hell. It’s all kicking off. Two people have been killed in Tibet: a Tibetan and a policeman. China announced thirty people have been jailed and many people are worrying that they weren’t given a fair trial.’ He lifted his eyebrows sharply. ‘That’s still to come, China and Tibet. The closer we get the less it looks like we’re going to find a way in.’
We’d had enough of Stalin and back on the Ural we quickly drove the last eighty kilometres to the capital. I was loving the bike; it was great to ride and I’d got the right-hand bends figured out now. The country was flatter and less rocky here, and the tarmac a lot smoother. The rain eased and we made good time to Tbilisi. There was no need to go straight to the station so we climbed to the Metekhi Church that overlooks the curve of the river and gives a great
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