Young Men, Time, and Boredom in the Republic of Georgia

Prologue

PROLOGUE August funfair. Apparently there is nothing for me to do here at all, at least so I’m told. Batumi, the regional center of the Autonomous Republic of Ajara, in western Georgia, is new to me, although I have been here twice before on short visits in 2004 and 2005. Today, in mid-2008, only three years later, nothing is as I remember it. In 2004, when the local leader, Aslan Abashidze, was ousted as a result of Georgia’s Rose Revolution, anxiety dominated the city. Mass fights erupted out of nothing, everyone seemed unsure of what would happen next, and the beaches lay empty. Now the streets are crammed with tourists promenading to and from the seaside with oversized inflatable water toys. Joyous outbursts of laughing , talking, and singing intermingle. These voices, however, are no match for the dancing fountains dominating two of the central squares: “French Fountains,” bursting into the air, synchronized with music from nearby loudspeakers. The bulvar—boulevard—stretching from the harbor and following the contours of the city along the shore, appears to be one big funfair . On the beach side, behind a long line of palm trees, there are cafés and bars. Most are built from wood and seem to have sprung up like mushrooms . On the other side are benches occupied by families or young couples , interrupted here and there by stalls selling shell figures, necklaces, soft drinks, cigarettes, and snacks to the crowds of tourists walking by. In the middle of the bulvar, a blind beggar has found a spot. Heavy house-music rhythms flow from a nearby café, and the beggar, with a smile on his face, dances incessantly to the music. Go home. When I arrive here, I have only one contact in the city, Nana, a local NGO worker I know through common friends in Tbilisi. She has agreed to help me find an apartment. Meanwhile, I sleep on a mattress in 2 • Prologue her office because all the hotels are fully booked. Many locals sublet their apartments for the summer, and a number of small businesses that arrange rentals have sprung up. We go to several of them with no luck. The sun is burning as we crisscross the city center in our search. We end up in a small basement office. The new Georgian flag and a picture of President Saakashvili decorate the back wall. The owner, a sturdy man in his forties, seems amused by the fact that, even though the peak tourist season has just started, we think that it’s still possible to find a place that has not yet been rented out. “So, what are you doing here?” he asks me. “I’m a social anthropologist ,” I explain. “I’m here to conduct research on how young men in Batumi relate to their future, young men who have finished university and are currently unemployed, in order to—” “Everyone in Batumi has a job!” he says with a stern and surprised voice. “There, I made your conclusion . Nothing more for you to do here; now you can go back home.” His mood seems to have changed quickly from amiable to displeased. He leans forward, supporting his elbows on the desk. He looks at me mockingly. I’m an idiot. Beach boys. The university is closed for the summer holidays. I have arranged to meet with some people who can help me get in touch with former The door to a parallel world. Prologue • 3 students, but they do not have time for some weeks yet. In the meantime, I want to get acquainted with the city and find an apartment. I go to one of the cafés by the bulvar to get a drink and write notes. Three young men stand behind the counter. I ask one of them for a Corona. He puts his hand on the fridge and looks at me: “Are you sure you want a Corona? It costs eight lari [approximately two U.S. dollars]. We also have some local beers that cost only three.” I order a local instead. He asks if I want lemon. I say yes, and he puts a slice in the beer, which immediately starts to fizz and flow out of the bottle. “Oh, I’ll get a new one.” The same thing happens . “What’s wrong with it?’ he says in surprise. “Maybe you want it in a glass...