He looks over to the young man at the end of the table and tells a story of that time. You see how it was, he says, Temo was a boy of six, his older sister had a baby, we needed to get a family cradle from Guria... In the early 1990s, everything was collapsing. This was the time of war and banditry and roadblocks. There were militias with guns everywhere, demanding tribute. All is change and motion, the centre cannot hold and things go from better to worse. In such times, what can you do but fall back on tradition?

When they drove back to Poti, with the cradle attached to the top of the car, there are many checkpoints and they are soon stopped by militiamen. They explain the situation. One of the men says, “Let them pass.” One of the others disagrees. Yes, he clearly remembers getting out of the car, arguing for some time, Temo left sitting alone in the front seat. One of the militiamen leans in the window, pulls a grenade out of his pocket, gives it the boy. So as he looks round, the air heavy with sweat and alcohol, he sees Temo sitting there in the car, holding that weapon, that moment frozen in his memory. The militiaman says, “What am I doing? No, no, no, wrong pocket!” and then reaches into the other pocket for a packet of chewing gum, gives it the child, takes the grenade back. Maybe this guy is tired and not thinking, maybe he was making a little joke, maybe it was the drink, but the others started laughing at the situation. The tension broke. One of the guys finally says, “Come on, let them go on their way with their damn cradle.”

And so they returned with the precious gift, this promise of a good life ahead, the chance to shape a bright future for the child, despite the hard years to come. That’s how it was. I like to think that perhaps it was made of birch, the ancient tree of health and wisdom, but I don’t know. Now let us toast to the future and wish each other peace and prosperity.

Cradle, installation at museum representing Kolkhetian peasant house.