the hippo

It is a long, slow walk through Mziuri Park, navigating the patches of ice that stretch into every corner. The old tripod is on my shoulder, and the view camera is folded up in a mammoth tote bag. The very last film holder with one shot left is tucked inside. There is a statue of a hippo at the bottom of this little pilgrimage.

In the summer of 2015, a flash flood wreaked havoc in Tbilisi. Streets and highways were reduced to rubble. More than twenty people died. In the aftermath, animals from the zoo wandered the streets, no longer inside their cages. Jaguars and jackals were shot. Crocodiles were captured. And Begi, a lonely hippo strolled from here to there, as lost and confused as anyone else. The city was on lockdown, and the very earth had been ripped open like a grapefruit. Begi became an unlikely hero, an icon, a living example of what people were feeling. Eventually, he was coaxed back to what remained of the zoo, and some time after that a statue was built in his honor. It is a massive chrome object that shines in an odd corner of this park, past the skateboard tunnels and old swings.

Today, I will try to take a solid picture of this statue, reflecting the sky and the dead grass, cold and peaceful.

It is late afternoon, and I need the sun to be low in the sky to expose him correctly. I set up the tripod, taking my time. The park is swarming with people. Kids whip by on scooters. Young couples pause to take selfies in front of Begi.

I try to take my time composing the shot. The image is upside down in this kind of camera, and it really takes some patience to feel like you are on the right path. All at once, two old men approach me. One is on a bike, as his wheels skid across the icy sidewalk, braking wildly. I prepare myself to deal with some park cops, thinking they are security people. But no, they just two curious old guys. They start talking to me at the same time, and I wave my hands around explaining I do not speak Georgian. Their faces fall, then light up again as they nose into the lens and the body, inspecting it all. They speak to each other, nodding and pontificating. I ask them if it is ok for me to speak a few words in Russian, after making it perfectly clear I am not Russian. They allow me.

And then, we are talking about the world we live in, the leaders we disapprove of. They look at pictures of my wife and daughter and smile wildly. They ask me if I know a certain winemaker. I ask if they know a certain winemaker. The sun has come out, fierce and bright, and the shiny sculpture has become a second sun. I need to wait for the cover of clouds.

One of the men’s wife calls, and I know he is telling her that he is getting exercise in the park, as he lights another cigarette, leaning back into a bench and stretching his legs.

In a broken collection of sentences, we talk about cameras and life, and everything in between. I try to explain to them that this ease, this talking to strangers is as normal here as it is in New York, but I am not sure they understand me. All the same, here we are - staring at my cheap camera, not at a carburetor, doing what men do all over the world on a Sunday afternoon.

And then the clouds arrive, and I take the shot.

The camera is tucked back in the bag and the tripod is folded up, but they give it a last measure, holding it in their hands, agreeing it is a fine old tripod, heavy but not too heavy. I have taken a picture of the viewscreen, with my phone, to help see what the shot may look like, and it can be flipped right-side-up, putting the ground and the sky where you want them to end up. I show it to them before I leave and they shrug, not sure why this shining hippo is so picture-worthy - but to me, this is everything.