Museum Blues

Stalin keeping an eye on who's entering his museum

What to do in Georgia when it's too bloody cold for long treks in the Caucasus mountains or a mellow exploration of the Kakheti wine region—the kind of outdoorsy activity my guidebook likes to ramble on about? Staying in and getting wasted tends to lose its charm after a hangover or two, and there's only so much khachapuri (highly addictive cheese pie) a man can handle in a day. The best way to spend a few rest days seemed to settle on a bit of church and museum hopping. Fortunately, Georgia boasts a fair sprinkling of outstanding medieval churches, and not all of them are located in spots that can only be reached by helicopter. When it comes to museums, options are equally diverse, if a tad outlandish. The Animated Puppet Museum? Nah. The Avlabar Illegal Typography Museum? Maybe next time. The Mirza Fatali Akhundov Museum of Georgian-Azerbaijani Cultural Relations? Eh...

To be fair, I did stumble upon something that aroused my curiosity. The Stalin Museum in Gori. Gori, a rather bleak town a day's ride from Tbilisi, is the place where little Joseph spent his childhood. Apart from the museum only the small citadel in the town centre holds any touristic appeal—and a very mild one at that. Even the museum is a bit of a letdown. Spacious rooms glorifying Georgia's most famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) son, loads of newspaper clippings and documents drawn up in Russian with translations in Georgian, and everywhere a chill air rushing in through unseen crevices. No mention of the atrocities committed under Stalin, even though some of the worst Soviet-era purges took place in his own country. Things got almost homely in the room where Stalin's desk is displayed along with a great number of gifts from friends and allies around the world. Tasteful stuff, if you're into things like jewel-encrusted swords and letters of congratulation written on a grain of rice. My favourite item: a pair of red clogs presented by a local chapter of the Dutch communist party (tightfisted buggers!).

Stalin's home, dwarfed by its own protective superstructure

On my way out a lady with a yellow beehive took me by the hand to show me a wooden hut standing in front of the museum. Solemnly she opened the little front door and pushed me in. 'Home of Stalin,' she said, as if that explained the why and how of the structure's survival and near-perfect condition. Next was a green bulletproof train carriage, in which Stalin travelled to the Yalta Conference. Bog, tub, wooden air conditioning, and three minutes later I was out on the street again. None the wiser, but two hours closer to dinner time.