"I mean, really, who drinks wine out of a husk. The best part: Giorgi was only turning fifteen. I have already decided that for my son’s 15th birthday, I will bring him back here so he can chug wine out of a husk. It’s really the only way to celebrate. Actually, scratch that as the best thing. The best thing was a family friend bringing his horse to the suphra for everyone to ride. Get drunk and ride on a horse… now that’s a fifteenth birthday party!"
"Visiting anybody’s house/farm is like going to a petting zoo. This evening we went to another guy’s house and he had parakeets, a pet hawk, puppies, and heaps of bees (it was the first time I completely said no to something while here; I can’t stand bees). You just don’t get that type of pet diversity in America.
The best part: on the premises, they had a bear in a small cage. Bears! Number one threat to America according to Stephen Colbert, but I guess in Georgia they just keep them locked up in cages for shits n' gigs. I kind of felt bad for the bear, he just kept walking around in circles (he was not an ambi-turner)."
"I just heard that another volunteer has to go to a funeral on Sunday for a guy who died inside a pigpen, after which all the pigs ate his remaining flesh. Amazingly, the funeral will be an open casket. Only in Georgia."
"My host Babua (Grandfather) Rezo is the man (picture below). In between tending to some crops and the cows, he just sits in the eating house with his button-down shirt undone, ripping Georgian cigarettes and smiling. I don’t know what it is, but he gets it."
"Add to the fact that the lady sitting next to me started breast-feeding her daughter (who seemed a bit old to be breast fed), and I definitely needed a shower to wash away the feeling of disgust after I got off."
"This is Ian's Grandpa Giorgi, who resembles my own Grandpa in that he's always smiling and looks way past his due date. Before I start, the above picture is of my Babua Rezo, who I’ve praised previously. He gets up to work on the farm at 6:30 a.m., and after we eat at 9:30 or 10, he brings out a blanket and pillow and sleeps on this spring frame we have in the front yard until we eat again at around 3 p.m. I can’t say it enough, but this guy gets it."
"We thought, “Well if we get drunk enough, we’ll fall asleep when we get on and before we know it, we’ll be in Tbilisi at 7 a.m. with a hangover.” All was going to plan until we got on the train. The immediate thought was, “They’re taking us to the death camps."
"We were supposed to leave for our trip to Vani after fifth period but of course we were on GMT time (Georgian Maybe Time) and left a half hour after that. Why were we late you ask? Well, a teacher came over to the marshutka to yell at several of the ninth graders for skipping fifth period and when she came over she noticed that many of the other ninth graders were taking shots of vodka in the schoolyard.
Ten class-skipping, vodka-guzzling fourteen year olds isn’t enough to cancel a trip, so after a quick scolding we all got on the marshutka and set off on the road (drunk kids in tow). We first made a brief pit stop to pick up a few chairs as the marshutka only sits twenty and there were twenty seven of us. Despite the fact that we were packed like sardines, the ride to Vani was pretty fun. We sang Georgian songs and played “Never have I ever” ("Me ara sodis" in Georgian) while a few of the boys tried to sneakily smoke cigarettes in the back of the mini-bus. When we arrived in Vani we toured an archeological museum that had all sorts of jewelry and pottery from way back to when Jason and Argonauts made their way through the area. It was pretty cool to see that so many artifacts were found in just small part of Georgia. It’s funny how in America, we think objects something from the 1600s are old but in Georgia, artifacts that were found a few thousand years before Christ came about are considered old.Before heading back to Samtredia, we stopped by a little stream on the side of the road to have lunch. While enjoying our carbs, cakes and chicken one of the boys had this brilliant idea to take the air out of the marshutka’s tires, so we would get stranded and have a longer field trip. So, lo and behold, when it was time to leave one of the boys “noticed” that there was no air in one of the tires. Our marshutka driver was raging mad; I think we’re lucky he didn’t kill one of the students. This poor man was driving around drunk, screaming, smoking, vomiting fourteen-year-olds (beyond capacity) and then someone thought it was a good idea to create a flat tire to lengthen the excursion.
Our driver was no idiot. He knew one of the students took the air out. (Plus, the air caps were put back on the tire incorrectly). To make matters worse, as our driver began jacking the tire, a bunch of the girls’ twelfth grade boyfriends pulled up in an SVU and the students began to have a dance party with Georgian music. Meanwhile, somehow all the leftover food caught on fire (I blame the ninth grade pyro) and then one of the girls started hysterically balling after she accidentally got hit in the head with a small boulder . (Did I not say wild and crazy was an understatement?). The weird thing is, even though I was somewhat fearful I was going to die today, I totally feel like I bonded with these demonic kids. They all wanted to talk to me and play with me and even with the language barrier; we learned a lot about each other. They may be insane, but I somehow love them all. And at the very least, they make a simple trip to a museum an excursion and a half."
Ten class-skipping, vodka-guzzling fourteen year olds isn’t enough to cancel a trip, so after a quick scolding we all got on the marshutka and set off on the road (drunk kids in tow). We first made a brief pit stop to pick up a few chairs as the marshutka only sits twenty and there were twenty seven of us. Despite the fact that we were packed like sardines, the ride to Vani was pretty fun. We sang Georgian songs and played “Never have I ever” ("Me ara sodis" in Georgian) while a few of the boys tried to sneakily smoke cigarettes in the back of the mini-bus. When we arrived in Vani we toured an archeological museum that had all sorts of jewelry and pottery from way back to when Jason and Argonauts made their way through the area. It was pretty cool to see that so many artifacts were found in just small part of Georgia. It’s funny how in America, we think objects something from the 1600s are old but in Georgia, artifacts that were found a few thousand years before Christ came about are considered old.Before heading back to Samtredia, we stopped by a little stream on the side of the road to have lunch. While enjoying our carbs, cakes and chicken one of the boys had this brilliant idea to take the air out of the marshutka’s tires, so we would get stranded and have a longer field trip. So, lo and behold, when it was time to leave one of the boys “noticed” that there was no air in one of the tires. Our marshutka driver was raging mad; I think we’re lucky he didn’t kill one of the students. This poor man was driving around drunk, screaming, smoking, vomiting fourteen-year-olds (beyond capacity) and then someone thought it was a good idea to create a flat tire to lengthen the excursion.
Our driver was no idiot. He knew one of the students took the air out. (Plus, the air caps were put back on the tire incorrectly). To make matters worse, as our driver began jacking the tire, a bunch of the girls’ twelfth grade boyfriends pulled up in an SVU and the students began to have a dance party with Georgian music. Meanwhile, somehow all the leftover food caught on fire (I blame the ninth grade pyro) and then one of the girls started hysterically balling after she accidentally got hit in the head with a small boulder . (Did I not say wild and crazy was an understatement?). The weird thing is, even though I was somewhat fearful I was going to die today, I totally feel like I bonded with these demonic kids. They all wanted to talk to me and play with me and even with the language barrier; we learned a lot about each other. They may be insane, but I somehow love them all. And at the very least, they make a simple trip to a museum an excursion and a half."
"I’ve seen a little bit of it in Tbilisi, but as Jesus said, Nobody’s perfect. He said that, right?"
"Malaysians share with Georgians the annoying tendency to play DJ with their mobile phones in public places. In Georgia, you could be trying to enjoy yourself on a marshrutka (if such a thing is possible) when some guy pulls out his phone and begins blasting either Waka Waka or Waving Flag (since those are the only two songs played in Georgia) via their budget mobile. The same thing happens in Malaysia and I just don't get it. It's probably due to my American sense of respecting other people's surroundings. But apparently, nobody gives a shit in Malaysia... or Georgia. I mean, it happens in America, but usually we have the forethought to play music through descent means, like iPod speakers or a boom-box (if you're still stuck in the early-90s). But is the difference really just a matter of disposable income? For some reason, all the cats in Malaysia have their tails cut short. I don't know how it happens, or why it happens, but it is odd nonetheless. I haven't seen many stray dogs in Malaysia (unlike Georgia, which I'm pretty sure is where the stray dogs of Europe go to retire, much like they do with Alabama in the States). But there are a ton of stray cats with nubs for tails who roam the restaurants and beaches. It does make me second guess the "chicken" in the plate of noodles I eat at hawker centers."
"Back in the States, when I play volleyball, there’s not nearly this much thought and strategy put into it (example: Georgians will lose their shit if a back-player does not shift forward to cover the player in front of him who’s going up to block a spike; ra ginda bitcho!). For us amateur Americans, usually the aim is to get the ball across the net without an unforced error. The thought process is more along the lines of ‘Let’s not fuck this up’ rather than the Georgian philosophy of ‘Embarrass your opponent by spiking a ball into their face,’ a tactic that I’ve been on the business end of more than a few times.
One person in particular who has tattooed my forehead with freakish consistency is my dance instructor Vephkhvia (probably as payback for my snail like progress in learning the dance he’s been drilling into me for the past month). Despite being decked out in formal dance shoes (shined to a ‘T’) and nice dress pants, the man dominates. It’s really Jekyll and Hyde, as he’s so gentle and elegant when on the dance floor, but when he walks onto the volleyball court, he turns into blood-thirsty maniac.
What is even more interesting than the level at which the men of my village play is how they play it. Smoking breaks are often, but that doesn’t mean you won’t see one of the older guys digging a spike out of the dirt with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Also, a point doesn’t go by without someone yelling at a teammate who messed up (unless it was me, who I think they just feel sorry for). Usually the shouting match doesn’t go past one exchange each, but the dialogue always consists of a forcefully dictated bitcho (boy) and something else that I believe translates into ‘What the fuck?’"
"First of all, it wouldn’t surprise me that when Lasha does pass away—which hopefully won’t be for a long, long time—near his burial plot there will be a mural of him and his Mercedes Benz. Now that might sound ridiculous, but if you pass any graveyard in Georgia, you will see a mural of a man with his car. It’s usually shoddily painted, behind a glass case, with the deceased in the forefront, and his beloved car in the background. It’s absurd. I mean, I’m sure there’s some redneck in Arkansas who has his Hemi carved into his gravestone, but the sight is so common here in Georgia, that it can’t compare to anything I’ve ever seen before. What’s so surprising is how important family, religion, and death are in this society, but when it comes to a man’s everlasting epitaph, the car gets dibs. I could really stop right there and not have to say much more in order to convince you that Georgian men are fanatical about their cars, but there’s much more to get to."
