No money, no problems

Train ticket to Tbilsi- 12 Lari

Overnight stay in a hostel- 25 Lari

Food and drinks- 30 Lari

Taxi fare- 5 Lari

Spending time with your fellow TLG’ers- Priceless

I have no money. I’m broke. I spent pretty much all of it on my trip to Kakheti and Tbilisi, which was well worth it. No regrets. I now have only 4 Lari to my name, until we get paid, which should be in a week or so. I’m looking forward to it. But it’s like Biggie always said, mo’ money mo’ problems, and I don’t have any money, so no problems!

Part I. Ozurgeti

Having no cash to spend for leisurely weekend adventures, as per usual, I had resigned myself for a weekend sprinkled with some light reading, spending time in my village, and just good ole’ general boredom. Saturday morning I went to Lanchkhuti to use the internet anticipating paying 1 Lari to catch the marshutka into town, but Georgia had other plans for me, and being the telepathic country that it is, sensed my financial situation. As I was waiting on the side of the road for my marshutka to arrive, a car pulled over, and the nice Georgian man asked me where I was going. I told him, and he motioned for me to hop right on in. And so I did. Along the drive, he mentioned that he knew my host family, and was related to them in some way. Everyone in my village seems to be related in some form or another. Not only did I end up getting a free ride, but my hospitable driver even gave me a pack of gum AND a Jesus card.

After I spent a good bit of time relishing the precious internet, I walked back to the marshutka station. Once again, my plans for the weekend were interrupted with a phone call from Caitlin. This is starting to become a theme in my life. I don’t know how she did it, but she persuaded me to come to Ozurgeti, and spend the weekend with her host family. Her enticements? “Greg, Simon, and Adam will be there!” I don’t know why, but Ozurgeti is always incredibly difficult to get to. In fact, it might be the hardest place to visit in Georgia. I managed to find a marshutka, and when I asked what time it would be leaving the only answer I received was “10 minutes, 10 minutes.” Ten minutes translated to five hours, and the only entertainment I had was a Georgian man who sat near me, who spoke no English, and who kept pointing to random phrases in my translating book, to which I could only respond to with yes or no answers. When the driver finally decided to leave, he took the long route, meaning that he drove through villages in the mountains. Instead of the usual 40 minute drive, the trip to Ozurgeti took 2 hours. In the end, I had to wait 7 hours to see Caitlin, who called me every so often to make sure I was still alive. “Yes, I am still alive. I have no idea when were leaving. I have no idea what’s going on.”

At long last, we made it to Ozurgeti. I called my dear friend to ascertain where we would meet, and she told me to head to the theater, the only nice building in town. I didn’t know where the theater was, and Caitlin’s directions were infinitely worse than any Collette could ever give: “Just ask a random Georgian and they’ll point you in the right direction. Just keep asking. Eventually you’ll find it.” I had no choice but to accept her lousy ‘directions.’ My marshutka friend, who hadn’t stopped pointing to random phrases for the entire duration of the drive, was standing idly by; he seemed the best option for directions to the theater. Not only did this guy know how to get to the theater, but he took it upon himself to walk me there, all the while insisting on carrying my luggage. It was a short 5 minute walk until I found Caitlin, hand in hand with her host brother Luca.

It was late when we finally reached Caitlin’s home, and because of my ridiculously long travel ordeal I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so I was ravenous. Dinner was served almost immediately, which I most appreciated. Sitting down to eat with Caitlin’s host family is continuously comedic and never fails to disappoint. These people should really have their own sitcom. Deneeza, the host mother, parleyed information about her job. She works at the hospital, assisting with abortions, which are fairly common and acceptable here. Being the hands on woman that she is, she brought in the tools of the trade. Deneeza is all about show and tell. The instruments she brought in consisted of two long stainless steel devices, which are inserted into the uterus. She then did an egg beating motion with one of the tools to demonstrate how the procedure was performed. Needless to say, it was an incredibly fear-provoking and terrorizing experience. Deneeza freely admitted that she’s had 3 abortions, to which her daughter, Tamuna, was unaware of. Upon hearing this news, Tamuna exclaimed, in a disapproving tone, “Deda (mom)!!!”

restaurant spelling fail

To assuage our startled selves, Caitlin’s host dad, Mayrabi, bust out the bottle of cha cha. Everyone at the table began doing shots, save for myself, until Mayrabi noticed that I wasn’t drinking. He took the shot glass from the 9 year old and passed it to me. Yes, the 9 year old, Luca, was doing shots of cha cha, and drinking wine. All possible signs indicated that Luca had become drunk, which only made dinner a truly shining example of the first-rate comedic quality that is eating with Caitlin’s host family. Halfway through the meal, Luca disappeared, and came back playing a flute. I thought this was amusing and cute, however, Caitlin felt differently. “I love him, but he’s been doing that shit for two weeks now. I’m going to kill him.” 

Caitlins toilet-an outhouse. They never have toilet paper, so you have to steal napkins from the dinner table. Caitlin hoards them

When the flute playing, eating, drinking, and abortion talk was completed, we were rushed into the living room for characteristic after dinner dance party. Somehow, Caitlin managed to delay this imminent and inevitable customary routine by pretending to eat. I was the first to go, and reported back the conditions in the adjoining room near the kitchen, which had been transformed into party central….“it's like a rave in there!”

The following day, Greg arrived, and we met him at the theater. Greg too was treated with the same directions that Caitlin had given me previously, but he wasn’t too happy about it, and told Ms.Horribledirectiongiver to “know your city!” When Greg finally located us at the theater, he told us about his ordeal. I wasn’t the only one who had a rough go getting to Ozurgeti. On his short marshutka ride into town, Greg was seated next to a “fat woman who smelled like death,” whose excess weight engulfed our poor friend. But his suffering didn’t end there, and continued even off the marshutka. After stopping at a store for a chocolate bar, Greg began to search for the theater. Here was Greg, strolling along merrily, munching on his candy, happy as a clam until danger and misfortune assailed him. Gypsy children stole his sweet snack right out of his hands, and made a stab at stealing his jacket and wallet. The happy go lucky Greg quickly transformed into the Hulk, and punched one of the kids in stomach. It reminded of Billy Bob Thornton in Bad Santa, when he said “I beat up some kids today. I felt really good about it. I did it for good reasons.”

Later that afternoon, we made a trip to the “grocery store” to buy a few ingredients to cook an American style dinner. Our American style dinner included mashed potatoes, pizza, garlic bread, and spaghetti. It had been quite a while since I had eaten anything non-Georgian, and it was a refreshing change. Because we were broke, Greg bought the ingredients, and even helped cooking in the kitchen. We explained to Caitlin’s host dad, who I call Mr. Mayrabi (they find the Mr. part hilarious), how men in America cook, and not just the women. He shook his head, frowning upon such a notion. Mr. Mayrabi wasn’t having any of that. In contrary to our previous dinner, which had entirely too much seriousness and startling news, we were treated with Georgian vocabulary lessons. Swear word lessons to be more precise. Each individual around the table took their turn saying very naughty words. Even the 9 year old Luca joined in. After all, he already gets drunk, so a few bad words can’t do any harm. The Georgians got a kick out of the Americans cussing in their native tongue, and encouraged us to remember the words. I love Caitlin’s host family, they’re so eccentric and inappropriate. Speaking of inappropriate, Deneeza is the definition of this word. Every time I see her, she touches my butt. Sometimes it’s a grab, sometimes a pinch, and at other times a slap.

The next morning, Caitlin and I woke up early. We walked into the living room and joined Deneeza and Tamuna (the host sister) who were watching television. They watch the strangest programs. For about 30 minutes, they enjoyed a wedding video. It wasn’t the wedding of someone they knew. Apparently, Georgia has an entire program consisting of wedding videos. It’s kind of like the wedding announcements you read about in the paper, except these are filmed, and are on TV, and are irrevocably absurd. The videography was awful; for 10 minutes, literally, the camera focused entirely on the bride admiring herself in the mirror. What made it even worse was the badly chosen background music-“Unbreak my heart,” by Toni Braxton. When this dreadful crap went off the air, the commercials began. My favorite commercial in Georgia is the one for the most popular beer in this country, Natakthari (no idea if this is spelled right, but I’m too lazy to check). The narrator in the commercial sounds exactly like the vampire in Sesame Street, and I wait, in vain, for him to start counting, “one Natakthari, ha ha ha. Two Natakthari, ha ha ha!”

When Greg woke up, the three of us were driven into town by Mr. Mayrabi to catch up with Simon and Adam. It was Sunday, the day of a festival in Ozurgeti, which involved bizarre puppet shows, dances, and parades with several Eastern European countries walking about in their traditional garb while playing cultural music. While catching up, Simon informed us of his most recent bathroom tribulations. Every now and then, he’ll find a puddle of urine near the toilet. His first thought to make sense of this oddity placed blame on the dog, but he knew the beloved canine was not at fault, because he’s never allowed entrance into the home. The only other possible culprit is the host father, who must have horrible eyesight, aim, is constantly drunk, or just doesn’t give a damn. Most likely it’s a combination of all of the above. To make matters worse, there’s rarely any toilet paper available. Wiping provisions then become pages from a sports magazine or book, which Simon hates to use, remarking that it “feels a bit offensive to use Georgian literature in such a fashion.” I found this scenario pretty humorous, until I found myself in the same situation not long afterwards. It was no longer amusing.

Ozurgeti fest

Part II. School

Several weeks ago, I was sitting beside one of my English co-teachers, Tamuna, in the 7^th grade classroom, which I’m not even supposed to be assisting in. I’ve only taught a few classes with Tamuna, which is a good thing. Co-teaching with her is equated with boredom, because all I do is sit there while she does all the talking. I was saved by Irena, who walked in on class and liberated me. “Reni, Reni, come with me.” She always says this, “come with me.” One of these days she’s going to add on to this sentence and pull an Arnold, telling me “Reni, Reni- come with me if you want to live.” She took me to another school, located in the village behind mine, about 2 kilometers. This tiny village school goes by the name Archeuli. I had seen the school before, and with the boarded up windows and the crumbling façade, I was fairly certain it had long been abandoned. This was not the case. The first floor of the school is wasting away, and the only saving grace is a completely out of place Soviet-esque photo monument of the villages war heroes. The second floor improves drastically, and is actually nicer than my school in Nigvziani. The floors are tiled in some parts and in some are vinyl, and all of the doors are new-none of the ancient wood with peeling paint chips which occupy my normal school. I ended up only teaching two classes, with students of all different age groups in each class. This made teaching especially difficult.

totally looks abandoned

more abandoned school building, except it's not abandoned

our students don't draw sissy stuff, they draw WAR

During my second class, a man walked in, smoking. I’ll repeat that: a man walked in smoking into a classroom full of children. I’m going to add that to my only in Georgia moments. After I finished class, Irena led me to the teachers’ lounge, where the smoking man was waiting, sitting down by a table. He was joined by the Principal, Taia, who disclosed that this unfamiliar person was her husband. I hadn’t even sat down for 5 minutes before they brought out the beer. Natakthari of course, only the finest. The accoutrements followed, and cups were placed on the table, where they were quickly filled with golden liquid. Drinking on school ground during working hours: another only in Georgia moment. I was just racking ‘em up that day. If this scenario had taken place in America, I could have expected to be immediately let go, and most likely would have faced lawsuits from whiny parents who take life way too seriously. Before we left to return to the school in Nigvziani, Irena asked if I wanted to go on an excursion Sunday to Anaklia in the region of Samegrelo.

The “excursion” didn’t occur on Sunday, which was for the best, because I was stuck in Ozurgeti. Instead, the excursion took place on Wednesday, and was in Kutaisi, not Anaklia. The school hired a private marshutka to drive us to the city, and I had no idea what we would be doing. This cluelessness ensued for the entire duration of the field-trip, which they referred to as an excursion. Our first stop was at a grocery store in Lanchkhuti, which took about 30 minutes. At least every student at this small school had brought along a mother or grandmother, and these women did everything as if they were in slow motion. Our first stop in Kutaisi was Gelati Monastery, which was followed by stops at two other churches/monasteries. At our third monastery visit, we stopped to eat, setting up under a covered area with a large picnic table. The food magicians did a tremendous job with lunch, and there was a pretty impressive spread of varied foods. The marshutka driver, Dato, began talking to Irena. I knew he was talking about me because I heard him say otsakhuti, which means 25. He told Irena he had a very nice son, and he would like to set me up with him. I’m so glad I lied and told everyone that Nathan was my boyfriend. It’s saved me countless times. Irena told him I was taken, and that was that. Thank God. During our picnic, the Principal one-upped herself, and made the beer drinking experience while at school seem like childs play. As fast as the blink of an eye, a bottle of cognac appeared on the table, and Taia began to fill our cups with shots, in front of the children who were present at our table. Several toasts were made, and multiple shots later, I was feeling a bit tipsy. I had purposefully left a large amount of liquor in my cup, but I was required to drink this on our last toast, because it was a toast to the children. How nice.

Frescoes in the monastery

Trying to look pious in the monastery

This lady is way more pious

Gelati monastery?

forgot the name of this one...

Our last stop was at an amusement park. I was under the impression that we were going to ride horses, because this is what Irena told me. Horses turned out to be the fake plastic kind, like those on a carousel. I didn’t ride the carousel, but I did get to go on the ferris wheel and ride the bumper cars. The scariest thing about the bumper cars? That’s how Georgians actually drive. We didn’t get back into town that night until 8 p.m., with our time delayed because the children were hungry. So, we stopped at a restaurant in town where all of our picnic food was brought in, and even heated up by the restaurant staff. Taia bought another bottle of cognac, and we had a few more shots…for the children. It was another only in Georgia moment.

 One of the most rewarding things about teaching is the children, who are so sweet and give me a ridiculous amount of completely undeserved praise. A few have already given me presents-a keychain, flowers, and a hand knitted purse and hat. They learned the word ‘queen’ for the letter q, and several students refer to me as queen. Each day after class, most of the girl students insist on giving me a hug and a kiss. I’m showered with too much love. The only student activity I’m not a fan of is candid photo shots and videos. Only the boys do this, and they try to do it as discreetly as possible. Occasionally, I’m treated to afternoon delights. Last week, the 1^st grade teacher asked me to come to her classroom after I was done teaching to eat homemade cake with her. A few other teachers joined us, and we sat by the wood-burning stove warming ourselves while getting fat eating cake.