It isn’t every day you find yourself talking to a major figure of recent history, especially not one who has staged both a successful and bloodless revolution, held high office in two countries, and led a tiny nation in a war against Vladimir Putin’s Russia.

Confident chap though I undoubtedly am, even I felt a touch of awe when I traveled to Ukraine to meet former Georgian President Mikheil Saakashvili.

I was sent out to Ukraine by The Economist, who dispatched me on orders to spend time with the former Georgian president and ‘try and partake in a leisure activity with him’. I felt this was silly, since a man whose career has been as interesting as his doesn’t need a fun novelty activity to make an interesting story for those not in the know; however, they said they weren’t interested in anything except a ‘fun thing to do’, and ordered me to ‘get to know the real Saakashvili’. I’ll admit, this sounds rather more like a blind date than investigative journalism, but this wasn’t my idea. 

I duly arranged to visit a wine festival with Saakashvili where his own vintages were to be displayed, and subsequently wrote a piece on it all, exactly as per my instructions. The Economist then complained that there was nothing about the Ukrainian war, his early political career, or Georgia’s 2003 Rose Revolution. I then reminded them that they had said they weren’t interested in any of that, which they denied. I told them to check their emails. 

So, given the demonstrable amateurism of The Economist, you, my dear readers of this infinitely superior publication, can hear the full tale of my adventure in Ukraine – warts and all, as Cromwell said, and without any need to stroke the egos of has-been politicians. 

In our initial contact, Saakashvili indicated that he was quite keen to visit Mariupol. The Economist said they weren’t interested, but the former president insisted that I meet him there. I was enthusiastic since it’s hardly the sort of place that makes the tourist brochures, and even if The Economist didn’t want it, then the hell with them. My chums at The Spectator could have an exclusive of their own. Interestingly, The Economist later complained there was nothing about Mariupol in my piece for them, despite their earlier lack of interest. Make of that what you will. 

Since there is no airport in Mariupol, Saakashvili’s team paid for a flight for me out of the dilapidated Soviet industrial city Zaporozhye. The first cold bucket of water for the day was the journey out of that city. Although they’re barely any distance apart on a map, according to a signpost the distance between them was 209 km. I braced myself for a long journey and decided to chat to my driver, who was, again, generously supplied by Saakashvili’s team. 

“Ukraine is very beautiful, I have never seen the south before,” I said to my driver, whom I had privately named Alan Spode, gentleman’s gentleman and driver extraordinaire. “The fields and trees remind me of central France,” I added. Spode grunted agreement. I asked if had visited France. He said he hadn’t. I then asked if he was from around this part of Ukraine. He said he wasn’t. 

Now that Spode and I had established a firm master-servant relationship like Frodo and Sam in The Lord of the Rings, or like you read about what Army officers had in the old days, I thought it safe to go to sleep, and that Spode wouldn’t be tempted by trying to ransom off a trusting Brit amateur journalist to the Russian-backed separatists, whom I imagined to be lurking in the woods on the hills like the Nazi SS always do in war films with Brad Pitt.

Ultimately, however, Spode overcame any temptation and remained loyal. 

We came to the outskirts of Mariupol, where Spode did the talking while a dynamic duo of a policeman and a soldier waggled AK rifles in my general direction. Spode came to the rescue, rattling off some impressively firm explanations that had our police/soldier pair nodding. Good old Spode. I was sad to leave those two inquisitive chaps behind, though, I feel that they had the makings of the lead stars in a great buddy-cop action film. 

We drove through Mariupol, which reminded me a little of Aberystwyth or Wolverhampton, but without the stabbings and football fans. Spode drove me to a car park, where we had an emotional goodbye: he wrenched my bag clean of the car boot and dumped it, before driving off without looking back. Struggling, no doubt, to contain his feelings.  

I was met by one of Saakashvili’s assistants, a woman whose smile was so fixed it looked like her teeth might crack. She had the same frantic nervous energy that you find in the mothers of brides about to get married or footballers when they’re asked if they’ve cheated on their wives. Still, she was very friendly as she escorted me into a restaurant, and then into a private room where the Big Cheese himself sat, back to the door and holding court to his entourage, of whom there were about nine. 

The first thing that struck me was his dress, since he was clad in ill-fitting military fatigues a la Castro, and not doing much to disprove the Georgians who say ‘Saakashvili was a dictator!’. He smiled as I was introduced, and shook hands (though limply, as most Georgians do when they don’t also do their air kissing). I was then invited to sit down. 

The crew all looked to be Ukrainian, with one exception whose features were unmistakably Georgian. He had the same Mediterranean coloring of many Georgian men, and the same sneering scowl that comes from over-mothering, entitlement, and getting your own way by strength of numbers. I was asked a few polite questions about my journey, and then the conversation moved on – or rather, Saakashvili began to hold court again. As I had been told, he dearly loves the sound of his own voice, whether he’s speaking English, Russian, Ukrainian or Georgian.  

The people around him were a mixed lot. Two were photographers, and another pair were his faithful Ukrainian assistants, but the rest were a more interesting crowd than I’d expected. I had anticipated a horde of Georgian hangers-on, the remnants of those Georgians who came to Ukraine when, in 2014, Saakashvili took up his Ukrainian citizenship and the governorship of Odessa, but the only one of those was a surly-looking chap who probably wished there khinkali – Georgia’s national meat dumpling – or prostitutes to hand. 

The rest were sitting Ukrainian MPs, but surprisingly they all came from different political parties. This, it turns out, is how Saakashvili is trying to stay politically relevant: by bringing together different factions in the Rada and getting them to cooperate.

Effectively, he is playing the role of a peacemaker – a little bit of a stretch for a man who, to wit, staged a successful revolution, raided and shot up a TV station that criticized him, ended Adjara’s partial autonomy by whacking the governor behind bars, and getting involved in a war with Russia, the latter of which I don’t blame him for, but if there’s one thing I’m sure of by now, it’s his mercurial nature. A calmer head might have prevented it.

One of the crowd was a dull Ukrainian entity, who I don’t think was an MP but he appeared to be Saakashvili’s favorite – perhaps his bland personality appealed to him. Then there was a girl who had studied at a top Western university, a classic blonde Ukrainian who was cheerful and friendly (whom I uncharitably christened The Right Honourable Barbie), as well as a more reserved and impeccably dressed older lady. The final one was an amiable, dapper scaramouche who, believing me to be a person of import, practically fell over himself to be helpful (his name in my head was d’Artagnan). He and I got along well, though.

Our first stop was at the regional HQ of the Ukrainian Marine Corps. This, Saakashvili told me, was why he was in uniform. I nodded sagely and thought to myself that the critics were right – this fellow isn’t just eccentric, he’s raving, in a quiet sort of way. The uniform, incidentally, was not even of Ukrainian regulation, instead, it was in the same pattern that the US Army wore during the early 2010s. Basically, because he was going to a military base, he thought he should wear greens. Recently, I’ve noticed that the people most enthusiastic about wearing a uniform are those who’ve never actually had to wear one while shivering and shaking or sweltering and sweating. 

Saakashvili also told me that it had taken them three days to get clearance for me to visit the base. Why, I asked. “Because,” he explained, “you are a foreigner here”. I said that I was a Georgian citizen, and it is an allied nation. “Georgians are still foreigners here,” he shrugged, again as though he was not one himself. I then said that if I was a Georgian citizen, it was his fault, since he had granted it to me nine years earlier. This he found to be hilarious. 

The Ukrainian colonel who escorted us around the base was a jolly chap and seemed to be composed of muscle and little else. He showed us a presentation of his unit in action, with some of the Marines attending. They were a tough crowd – the 503rd distinguished themselves in 2015 and were instrumental in retaking lost territory from the Russians. Saakashvili was enthralled for about two minutes, but then checked his social media. Personally, I found that to be a little rude. Perhaps having gone to a British private school and raised in the etiquette-laden bosom of the English upper-middle classes has given me a certain slant on public behavior. Checking one’s phone during a presentation is the height of bad manners – particularly when those presenting are as brave and dangerous as those chaps. 

But this was to become a pattern of the day. The former president is absolutely addicted to social media. In my naïve mind, I had always thought that celebrities with a big following on Facebook or Twitter don’t check the comments of what people leave to say about them, but he carefully scrutinizes each one. I believe this is why he is convinced that the people of Georgia and Ukraine are dying for him to take the reins of power once more, but this would be a bit like me convincing myself that I’m the most handsome man in the world because my mother and grandmother kept telling me in my childhood. I realized at the age of 13 that this was not the case when even the fattest and most arrogant girl in our school declined to be my girlfriend. But I digress. 

After the presentation, the colonel took us around the rest of the barracks, finishing in the kitchens. It was here that Saakashvili declared that he was hungry. The staff, though taken aback, furnished him with some chicken, which was then doled out to the rest of us. I sensed some resentful gazes from the Marines, since I think that this was supposed to have been their lunch. Upon finishing, and without waiting for anyone else, Saakashvili promptly left the room. This is another habit of his – he just charges off without warning or consulting anyone else. Again, shocking bad form in my view. The rest of the entourage, led by The Right Honourable Barbie, then chase after him. 

After our visit to the Marines concluded, we then set off for the beach. It was a short drive, but Saakashvili was plainly excited, because he and his miserable Georgian minion have a great bee in their bonnets about turning Mariupol into the new Batumi – a beach resort that will be loved by both Ukrainians and foreigners, and which will bring in foreign investment bacon (and thereby possibly forestall a Russian assault on the city). We were going to the beach to meet with some national news journalists – TV journalists, that is, with cameras, microphones, the whole shebang. Saakashvili’s favorite thing, I quickly realised. 

It began to rain worthy of Wales, and so umbrellas were conjured by the ex-president’s inexhaustible staff. This was the first time visiting this beach for many of the MPs; d’Artagnan, still convinced that I was a media bigwig from London, scrambled to help me by holding up an umbrella, nearly falling over a railway line as a result. Still, he and the other MPs were interested in the Georgians’ idea. After all, Batumi is a famous financial success story, and Ukraine lost its most prominent Black Sea resorts when Crimea was taken by the Russians in March 2014.

I’m not a maritime expert, but you could see that it’s just not going to work. For one thing, the beach is too small. There’s barely 15 metres of sand, nowhere near enough to install the beachside bars and cafes that they put in Batumi. Still, Saakashvili strode around the beach for the cameras, saying what money it could make, and how great it was that the train tracks were only 10 meters away, although I’d have said the fact that there is no railway station is a more pertinent point, but who am I to question a former head of state?

Suddenly, and without warning, Saakashvili – with a grin a mile wide – kicked off his shoes and began to scramble to pull his trousers down. The cameramen, who had been a little docile up until this point, fell over themselves trying to get a better shot, hardly believing their luck. It appeared that the great reveal was not, in fact, the Presidential Wedding Tackle, but the fact that he was wearing swimming shorts and hadn’t told anybody. Sasha, his Ukrainian sidekick, rushed to copy him and then stand by his side, like Batman being joined by Robin. 

He might be in demand in obscure political or academic circles, but the former Georgian president isn’t going to get any calls from Men’s Health. I’m very much an advocate of ‘if you don’t got it, don’t flaunt it’ when it comes to the human body, but still, it’s a free planet. He then began to stride towards the water, and plunged in like the launching of the HMS Ark Royal, then struck out into the sea. 

In fact, he went and kept on going, so much so that I began to wonder if he was considering a holiday in Turkey. After a while, however, he and Sasha turned around and came back. The cameramen, looking bemused, then wired him up with a microphone and headphones so that he could be filmed. The Ukrainian nation, therefore, was treated to the sight of the former Governor of Odessa, the former President of Georgia, energetically telling them what plans he had to turn this derelict beach into a new luxury resort, all the while as he stood wiggling and jiggling in the pouring rain under the greyest of clouds.

We then waited for him to change his clothes in the minibus. The sight of him trudging up the ramp to the road, soaking wet and walking on barefoot, rather than in his shoes, made me think that although this man’s heroes are Kemal Ataturk and George Washington, it all looks a bit more Sacha Baron Cohen.  

We then visited a ‘start-up center’ for small businesses, which has been one of the few success stories for Mariupol, so local and news crews were present. One funny moment was when The Right Honourable Barbie spoke better than all the rest – or rather, since I don’t speak Ukrainian, she at least had a much better presence for oratory, with shifts in tone, hand gestures, and body language. This, however, plainly wouldn’t do for Saakashvili – he either interrupted her, or made sure he got the last word in. It was quite a funny performance to watch, but revealing in its own way. 

There were some very impassioned speeches from others, too; so passionate, in fact, that some of the Ukrainian government and private sector representatives got quite carried away, to the point that they thought I, too, was one of the gang who’d helped turn things around. We all shook hands warmly for the cameras, myself trying to look satisfied and inspiring, wearing a grinning face that said this, gentlemen, was good work done well. 

From there it was time to visit a port – an empty port, as it turned out, except for some rusting ships. The port’s director, an ageing man who spoke as though he was lung cancer personified, frantically explained to the MPs that his port facility must close, so what should he do about the jobs for all the dockworkers and sailors? This didn’t interest Saakashvili much, though, and after five minutes he left to go back to the hotel. He explained to me that nothing could be done for the place or the people. I stayed with the MPs, though. I felt sorry for the manager of the port. His problems made me sad. 

We all then went back to the hotel where we met the mayor of the city, who talked for two hours straight. They spoke mostly in Ukrainian, so I didn’t catch most of it, but it seemed as though despite the fact that he has publicly been very supportive of Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, most of what he said (according to d’Artagnan) was a tirade against the current administration.

I just sat there and drank, although in the occasional silences d’Artagnan and I had a chat, him expressing polite interest in Westminster politics (of which he had a surprising store of knowledge) and developments in Tbilisi.

Following dinner, we hit the streets. I’m not entirely sure why, but Saakashvili wanted to go for a walk. This, it turned out, was something of an error, since he had underestimated the mayor’s popularity. It appears that the mayor is considered the economic savior of Mariupol.

As we walked through the city center park people kept stopping us for pictures. I, too, was taken to be one of the lads, so did my best to look like a Ukrainian county councilman who has been creating jobs left, right, and center. It soon became plain though that it was the Mayor everyone wanted to talk to, though, so Saakashvili wandered off with his Georgian friend. He told me the next morning that they’d been accosted by some girls who admired them. He didn’t know I’d had them in my line of sight the whole time and can categorically assure you that that never happened.

On leaving for the hotel, Saakashvili denied me the chance to ride back in his car and said I should travel with the others. It seemed that the fourth place in the car (beside his assistant and his Georgian pal) was for The Right Honourable Barbie. An uncomfortable thought took root, somewhat confirmed by the hotel woman on reception the next morning who said to me archly ‘Your friends didn’t get much sleep last night’.

These uncomfortable musings were later confirmed by similar reports, and I must say I was disappointed. Not just because it’s an unpleasant thought of someone’s pretty 30-year old daughter playing two-backed beastie with a much older man whose physique is…well, perhaps a bit short of the ideal. Not just that, for me, there’s nothing worse than unwarranted Georgian male vanity and conceit being justified, and while I know that some people will debase and degrade themselves to advance careers, I would imagine it’s important to make sure that one pursuing such a course of action is backing the right horse. So to speak. 

Saakashvili and I left alone at 3:30 the next morning. On leaving the grounds we had to turn back because he’d left one of his phones behind. He then fell asleep, and the presidential snoring is a sound to behold. I was too tired to care, though, and passed out myself.

We had a drink before the flight back to Kyiv, and here he showed me that he was still a bit of a statesman. He was, for instance, quite insightful about Angela Merkel: “She’s tactically brilliant, but strategically useless”; scathing of Sarkozy “he hated Eastern Europeans, as he told me, and everyone knew he was embezzling money for years”; tolerant of David Cameron “he visited Tbilisi when he was the Leader of the Opposition. He was a nice man, he just fell in love with his own success and believed he could do anything” (which, from Saakashvili of all people, is the pot calling the kettle black); and surprisingly skeptical of Zelensky, especially as it is the latter who returned Saakashvili his previously revoked Ukrainian citizenship; “He’s just a performer”. With Putin, however, he is less eloquent. “He’s a fuck,” I was told. So there.

 We met again in Lviv a few days later for the vaunted wine festival. He has a winery, but it seems as though this is largely the province of his younger brother, with whom he is hardly close. Still, the wine is good – although the name of ‘Saakashvil’s Cellar’ is perhaps a little unfortunate. 

It’s plain that none of this interests him. The cameras do, though, as soon as a cameraman is around to interview him, he perks up immediately. At the wine festival, he very happily presents an old man who commissioned a statue of him in Odessa when Saakashvili was briefly the governor of that region. This alone certainly points to his proclivity for self-aggrandizement. Indeed, his language occasionally borders on messianic. When I asked what his plans were for his life, he replies with his tongue nowhere near his cheek, in a tone of deadly seriousness, “Save Ukraine. Then save Georgia”. And it’s plain that in his mind, there’s only one man for the job. 

Later, we dined alone. This was perhaps the most fascinating part of the whole trip. He is thirsty for any knowledge that could help him on his crusade. Everything from the Falklands War and why NATO had not helped Britain retake the islands from Argentina, as well as my thoughts on how Azerbaijan had so resoundingly defeated Armenia in their recent conflict. 

One area in which his rhetoric has noticeably changed from the statesman of twenty years ago is that he mentions the West rather less frequently. It is possible he feels a sense of betrayal. When remembering the 2008 war, he recalls that before the fighting he was seen as the great reformer and received as “an international superstar”, and, as he says,t after the five-day conflict ended, Georgia was declared to have fired on Ossetian and Russian positions first. I point out to him that it was simply easier for the West to blame him rather than risk provoking the Kremlin, to which he shrugs and replies, “Of course”.

His assistants then arrive, and while the conversation stays on politics, the atmosphere is somewhat lighter. Yet, after a quick trip to the bar to order more water, I return to our table to find that Saakashvili has vanished. Were I an American novelist, I might ask – had he ever even been there? Well, he had, as the half-empty bottle of white and mauled remains of a Chicken Kiev dinner could testify. His assistants explain that the former president felt tired and had returned to his hotel.

It was odd to have received no word of goodbye at all – not even the patronizing nod-smirk-handshake favored by British diplomats. But I do not feel there was any ill intent behind Saakashvili’s disappearing act, since it was rather in keeping with what I had seen from him in previous days – he arrives, does what he came to do, and leaves. 

I don’t think this is conscious rudeness, either. Even if it is, obviously, incredibly rude. It’s just that in his world, he is plainly the most important person alive. I suppose it would be odd if he wasn’t so conceited, having gotten his own way for the best part of twenty years. 

On a personal level, he is quite hard to dislike. He’s amiable, friendly, and generous, and is clearly highly intelligent with a great store of knowledge. Where he fails as a politician and a person is his view of himself. He cannot be contradicted; he cannot be wrong. And for all that I quite liked the man on a personal level, 24 hours of his company was more than enough. 

If you’re wondering, by the way, being something of an egotistical braggart in conversation myself, although I know when to shut up and when I’m wrong, I felt it safer with Saakashvili to revert to a military mindset and behave as a soldier as to his superior officer. Otherwise, I felt, our personalities might clash. 

What he doesn’t want to admit – or perhaps in his arrogance genuinely can’t see – is that his time ended long ago, but he continues to act as though it’s still 2003. It’s both amazing and sad to watch. My regular readers will know that I don’t have much good to say about Western politicians, but at least they know when their time is up. You don’t see John Major or George W. Bush angling to get back into office and presenting themselves as ‘the people’s only hope’.

I suppose what I resent about this is that it is based on a supposition that Georgians and Ukrainians are just too stupid to figure things out for themselves and put someone else forward. What I also resent is that their more recent choices seem to prove him right. 

Still, you can’t help but admire his energy. It is perhaps to understand a discount version of the force that must have lived in men like Washington, Ataturk, or Martin Luther King. But with that comes to the fact that he isn’t suited to democratic office. He doesn’t behave like a politician, he acts like a king – a man who must be deferred to at all times, with everyone else expected to dance to his tune and do as they’re bid without complaint or comment. It is, really, thoroughly tedious. 

Yet, I still can’t help but admire him – and for all his many faults, I don’t think you could ever accuse him of not caring. More than one could say for many of our politicians, I’m sure. 

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By: Nicholas Waller
Title: Mikheil Saakashvili – The post-Soviet space’s once and future buffoon
Sourced From: www.neweurope.eu/article/mikheil-saakashvili-the-post-soviet-spaces-once-and-future-buffoon/
Published Date: Fri, 27 Aug 2021 12:22:40 +0000

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