Tblisi, Georgia, former USSR. Mid-August, something like 40oC. Our last day in the country, and finally we’re back in the capital, having spent the majority of the last few weeks in small rugged villages and very uncomfortable local buses. We have eaten a lot of cheese and bread. We have drunk some very suspect locally fermented wine. We have seen many, many churches.
Time for a bit of relaxation. We head to the famous thermal baths in Tblisi (which means ‘warm water’ in Georgian). We are expecting large pools, saunas, perhaps a jacuzzi. We have heard brilliant things about full body scrubs and massages. We are not expecting a blue-tiled shower room full of rather large naked Georgian ladies. Nevertheless, we plough on – at least it’s a chance to get nice and clean after being covered in a thin film of dust for the best part of a month.
I ask tentatively about the full body scrub – exfoliation is next to godliness, after all. ‘Three lari’, I’m told. ‘Lathya will do it.’ Lathya is about seventy, by my calculations verging on twenty stone, and completely naked. Bar, of course, sandals, scrunchie in her hair, and disgruntled look in her eye. She carries a large scratchy-looking mitt. ‘You want massage too?’ Uh, no, thank you.
Being quintessentially British and really rather terrified of communal nudity, I slip on a two-piece swimming costume and pop into the showers. The water is indeed warm, and lovely. I look around and see about seven or eight other women, all in various stages of nudity. The baths are not swimming pools, you see, rather they are the traditional version of baths. A place where you would go a few times a week for a wash and a natter. Lathya finishes scrubbing down another girl, manhandling her somewhat, and beckons me over.
She starts grumbling at me, barking orders in Georgian, pulling at my costume. One of the other women translates: ‘Take off the swimsuit.’ Uh, no, thank you.
Lathya is not happy. After a bit of ‘Go on, no-one cares’ encouragement from my friends, I eventually remove the top half, but steadfastly refuse to go completely naked. Lathya is extremely unimpressed, but makes me lie down on the tiled bench. I’m attempting to cover up my upper body with my arm, but Lathya’s having none of it. She yanks me about, hoses me down, scrubbing down my skin with aforementioned mitt. She turns me over and proceeds to try and pull my costume off anyway. I throw panicked looks at my friends, who are by now washing their hair and having a rather lovely time. I actually do relax, after a bit, trying not think of the obese Georgian lady attacking my epidermis with an oversized brillopad. Hosed down once more, I am barked at again in Georgian and the ‘treatment’ is over.
Exfoliated to within an inch of my life, I retreat to the changing rooms. The Sanctuary it wasn’t.
