ABSTRACT
My next visit in November 1994 seemed to coincide with a watershedin Georgia’s period of shame. The moral decline appeared to beending — at least the fighting. But then, as if pre-ordained by that perverse God temporarily assigned to the Georgians, came a completely new set of problems. In my region of Tbilisi, Saburtalo, they began one evening at 8.30pm. The lights went out.
