Village Life Updates

I knew it was going to happen. I was waiting for it. I just didn’t know it would come this soon. I’ve had my first problem with my host family, and I’m still pretty livid, but I’m hoping things can be quickly resolved in a peaceful manner. About two weeks ago, I met the son of the principal at my school, Miriani. I don’t know where this guy has been hiding and why I’ve just recently found him, but he speaks English, is two years younger than me, and is college educated. Since he is the only one around my age in the village who speaks English, it makes sense that I’ve been hanging around him quite a bit. There’s absolutely nothing to do in the village, I have no money, and, most importantly, NO ONE SPEAKS ENGLISH. It would stand to reason that this is a perfectly acceptable notion: for a man and woman to be platonic friends. What makes further sense is that I would desire to be around people my age, speaking my native language. My host father seems to think differently, however, and doesn’t seem to understand that I’m bored, lonely, and NEED to be around my peers speaking English.

 I spent last weekend in my village and hung out with Miriani on Saturday night. We spent some time at his friend Giorgis house (who wouldn’t stop singing No Americano), along with my 10^th grade student Ana, and Mirianis friend Dato. We mostly drank cha cha and wine, and after about two hours of drinking, Giorgi disappeared. He returned with a shotgun, and insisted that I shoot it. So I did. I shot a shotgun pointed straight into the air, for absolutely no reason at all. That night, I didn’t return home till midnight, but I had made sure to call my host family several times to check in with them. When I returned home, my host dad, Murmani, was sitting in the living room, with the lights on, reading over my TLG contract. He asked me, “Reni, romeli saatia (what time is it?!” Obviously I know how to tell time, so right off the bat I was a bit aggravated with the patronizing. He pointed to the number on the TLG contract, which I assume is a number to call if you have any issues. It made me feel incredibly awkward. The next night, I spent time with Miriani again, made sure to check in with my family as usual, and came home at 7:30, a more than reasonable time to come home for a Sunday night. This time, my host dad took me outside, and said Mariani was a tsudi bitchi (bad boy), and something or another about seqsi (sex) and chemi gogo (my girl), implying that he thought of me as one of his own daughters. It was strange, because the day before he was raving and gushing about what a good guy Miriani is. Look Murmani, Miriani is a guy. Of course he thinks about sex. He’s 23 years old. What my host dad completely failed to realize was how desperately I need to have something to do, and someone my age to speak with. This past week I didn’t have any of the usual boredom that I’ve been encountering as of late. I need this interaction; it’s important for my mental health.

To try to put an end to this dilemma, I wrote my feelings out in an eloquent and polite letter, and had my co-teacher translate it to Georgian for me. I haven’t given it to my host dad yet…I’m kind of scared. This predicament is a purely cultural one, so I doubt he’ll understand. In my village, women aren’t only friends with men, it’s unheard of; if you’re friends with a man, there must be something more to it, and most likely, sex is involved. To add to this, women aren’t out in the village past 7, when it gets dark. It’s hard to simply accept these cultural differences when you know that it’s blatant sexism. It sucks, and it’s not fair. Now that I’ve gotten this off my chest, I’ll list out what’s been going on in Nigvziani.

-I went to Lanchkhuti over the weekend and met up with Kenneth and Leslie who live in Supsa, a village very near mine. I also met a Peace Corps volunteer who teaches with my co-teacher Nargiza on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. We were able to discuss the randomness that is now our lives and divulge information about our host families. Kenneth’s host mom is, in his own words, “like the Michael Jordan of housewives.”

-I discovered, with Mirianis help, our village cemetery. One of his friends, Dato, was decorating (?!) his father’s tombstone so he invited me to come drink with them at the cemetery. We ended up getting drunk near the grave of Datos father. This was their way to honor him. Also, I found a snake slithering in the grass, and so I picked it up. I now know what scares the shit out of Georgians: snakes. Miriani and Dato were terrified, and made me look like Steve freakin Irwin. I decided to tease the boys, and spun the snake in their direction, until a fearful Miriani, exclaimed “Ahh, put it down Ren! I hate it! When I see snakes, I must kill them! I hate it!” He made it very clear that he did not like snakes. He hates them, in case you didn’t quite understand. I told Simon about my snake and gun shooting story, to which he responded, “Ren, you’re always doing dangerous things.” I know Simon, it’s how I live my life.

-In my previous village life post, I mentioned the Granny next door, and said that “no one gives a fuck about granny.” Well, granny is dead. She died two days ago. Ever since then, there has been a procession of people streaming in throughout my neighbors home. It’s sad that now people finally give a damn about her, bless her soul. When I tried to ascertain how granny died, my host dad put his arms across his chest, making the shape of an x. He essentially did the trust fall position. After he did this, I asked ‘Guli (heart)?’ and he said yes. Granny had a heart attack. I asked Miriani where the body was, and when the funeral would be. According to my Georgian friend, the body of the deceased stays in the house for 5 days. As I write this, Granny is lying in her bed, next door, deceased. It’s creepy as hell, and I don’t know how I sleep at night.

-I had lunch at Mirianis house a few days ago. His mom was shocked to find me sitting in the kitchen when she got home. Shocked in a good way. Most of the walls in the homes here are concrete, and you’d be hard pressed to find one that is actually painted. There was a chalk drawing on the wall in Mirianis home, which he told me his dad did when he was drunk. His family asked me what we ate in Louisiana, and I mentioned alligator, amongst other things. Now, they (the Georgians) think all we eat back home is gator. They’re disgusted by this. If only they knew…

-Everyone in the village has blood pressure monitors. This is probably a necessity, due to the high amount of salt they put in foods. I wouldn’t be surprised if almost all of the villagers have hypertension. I would like to know where in the world they learned how to use this medical instrument, and how they know what the numbers indicate. Nino took my blood pressure, and she told me it was low. I’ll have to get this checked out when I get back to the States.

-I bought ping pong balls at the bazaar. Not for table tennis, but for beer pong. I was trying to teach my host family about American culture, and taught them how to play this drinking game. I would like to say that this was a success, but it was a catastrophic failure. For starters, my family ignored the directions. They would drink the beer whenever they wanted, changed players frequently, and didn’t understand the concept of having only one try, taking more than their fair share of turns.

-We have buffalo in our village. And oxen. I actually cussed out an ox the other day on my way to school in Archeuli…the large animal was blocking my path, and I couldn’t walk around it because the streets were flooded. The beast saw me trying to get through, and didn’t want anything to do with making my life easier, so it snorted and started rearing up its hooves. I didn’t want to get rammed by its giant horns so I had to walk through puddles. This is where the cussing came in.

-The goat is still causing me problems. It once climbed up the stairs and came to my porch area. I decided I would try to make nice with it, and turn over a new leaf. I thought that maybe we could be friends. I squatted down and held my hand out, and the goat came over, sniffed me, and for a second I had anticipated a tender hearted reconciliation. The goat apparently still has a grudge, and abruptly turned around, spraying urine and defecating all over my porch. Then I had to clean it up. I hate him.

-Every Georgian, even if they don’t speak any English, knows two words in English, “No problem?”

-Every home has a little stove, and they put whatever in it. In other words, if it will burn, it’s going in. I’ve seen people put in plastic bags, cigarette buds, candy wrappers, and sometimes wood.

-For some reason, every male student in my school has two of the same shirts, and sometimes they all wear the same one on a particular day, making it look like that’s their school uniform. The first shirt is black and white, and it says ‘London, Global City.’ The second shirt is blue, and doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. The writing on this article of clothing reads ‘Where is my star shoe?’ I really would like to know what that means, why every male student owns one or both of these shirts, and why they have it.

-My very first week in Georgia, I noticed that a lot of people had green marks at various spots on their body. I just thought that the people here went crazy with green Sharpies and had marker fights. Come to find out, the green marker dots are actually Georgia’s version of Neosporin. You think they would try to make it clear. You’d think.

-I’m thankful the students at my school aren’t wild. James teaches at a large school (1,000 students) in Batumi, and his pupils are nuts. When the bell rings, they act like banshees, and, according to James, “run around in the halls wrestling, doing cartwheels, and build human pyramids.”

-They feed animals here the most inappropriate food. One of my co-teachers, Irena, feeds her dog bread with butter. She says that’s all she’ll eat, because she has very fine taste and only eats the best food. I once observed Nathan feeding his host cat. He gave it bread. “Cats don’t bread!” “They do in Georgia,” Nathan said. “Sometimes I put butter or oil on it. He likes that.” Dogs here are given chocolate and chicken bones too. It freaked me out the first time I saw someone giving their dog a chocolate candy bar, but they’re still alive, so I guess the animals here are used to it.

-My neighbors, whom I’ve praised previously, are still at it. Unfortunately, Granny is gone. Before Granny kicked the bucket though, I squeezed in a few memorable moments with Eleni, Nini (the daughters) and their dad, Zsa Zsa. Most Georgians think it’s adorable when I speak Georgian, and Zsa Zsa is no different. Zsa Zsa is a big guy, he’s bald, never wears a shirt, and always has a blue towel around his neck.  I once asked him “ra ginda bitcho (what do you want boy?”). That’s a pretty popular question here, and I didn’t think it was all that impressive. But Zsa Zsa thought it was…he was so impressed and amused that he got up from his comfortable chair, hugged me, and kissed my hand. He made it seem like I had just given him a million Lari. His 7 year old daughter, Eleni, taught me a new game. It’s called chicken throwing, and it’s exactly what it sounds like. You grab a chicken by the feet, squat down with it, and then throw it in the air. I’m going to try to make a professional sport out of it.

-I discovered the magic word in Georgia, which pretty much gets you out of any situation, and that word is medzineba (sleepy). If you can’t drink or eat anymore, they don’t seem to respect ‘I’m full,’ or ‘I’m drunk, no more.’ They do, fortunately, accept one word: medzineba. The other night I had a glass full of wine that I didn’t want to drink, but they had poured it for me anyway even though I had tried to refuse. I attempted to leave the table as discreetly as possible, but they caught me, and told me to daglie (drink). I didn’t want to, so I said medzineba. My host dad nodded in agreement and excused me from the table. They really, really, respect sleep here.

-I had a Halloween party with my 10^th graders yesterday. I told them to bring pumpkins to class, because we were going to carve them. They were allowed to bring knives, matches, and candles to school. One of my students ‘accidentally’ set his pumpkin on fire. My co-teacher and a few of the students brought several snacks along with a large bottle of red liquid, which I thought was some kind of soda. The mystery drink turned out to be wine, which we all drank, at 9:30 in the morning, in school. This shit would never fly in the States. It was a bit ironic that I was celebrating a holiday with pagan origins, alongside people who are steadfastly Eastern Orthodox Christian. But hey, cultural exchange right? Besides, no one in America seems to remember what Halloween is actually about. I was the DJ for the party, and I attempted to teach some of my female students how to drop it like it’s hot. They weren’t very good at it, but they did try.

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.

One Thought at a Time

Immediately after school ended on Friday, I dashed towards the main road to catch a marshutka into town, to withdraw much needed funds from our recently deposited paychecks. Along the way, I was intercepted by one of the 11^th grade male students at my school, who insisted on walking with me and flagging down my marshutka. If a Georgian insists, you must oblige. My destination was Liberty Bank, in the town of Lanchkhuti, although I had no idea where the bank was. I had been planning on roaming about aimlessly until I stumbled upon it, but, advantageously, one of my English co-teachers was on the same marshutka, and was also, coincidentally, going to Liberty Bank, or Banki as they say. My withdrawal interaction was relatively pain free and quick, much to my astonishment, but my co-teacher, Irena, seemed to be having a bit of a problem. She had a scowl on her face during her conversation with the teller, and was shouting about something or another. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to wait for her or just peace out. I didn’t want to seem impolite. She had, after all, led the way to the bank and paid for my transportation that afternoon, even though I did my best to refuse the offer, but resistance was futile. While I was standing awkwardly in the corner of the bank, internally debating whether or not I should interrupt her seemingly heated conversation with the bank teller, my phone rang.

“O.K. Ren, change of plans. Where are you? Let’s skip Batumi and go to Tbilisi and then do the Kakheti thing!” I received this call from an exasperated Caitlin. Two days previously, TLG had placed calls to hoards of English teachers, inviting them to come to Kakheti for a day of wine making. Because we only had been paid half of our usual 500 Lari, due to a previous overpayment, I had declined, hoping to save some money. Kakheti was far away, and it would be an expensive trip. We had decided instead to go to Batumi and then Kobuleti to visit Greg and his host family. Our recently acquired and conveniently located friend Nathan had accepted our invitation to join us in our outing. I had yet to visit Kakheti, and Caitlin’s offer was tempting. “Quick. You have to tell me now. I’m going to the train station to buy tickets. Are you in, or are you out?” I agreed, being in favor of rash decisions. “I’m in. Do it.” I placed a quick call to Nathan, expecting him to be a bit miffed with our sudden Batumi cancellation. Instead, he wasn’t the least bit agitated, and acquiesced to the unforeseen change of events, accepting our offer to journey to Kakheti. I hastily made my way out of the bank, fresh Lari in hand, and bounded towards my village to pack for the weekend. The unexpected plans came with a quickly approaching deadline, and I only had a few hours to make my way towards Ozurgeti, where I would meet Caitlin to catch the night train to Tbilisi.

The entire week had been characterized by cold temperatures and unforgiving downpours of rain, and I didn’t have any proper suitcases to bring with me for such a short, wet trip. In an attempt to pack lightly, I brought one change of clothes, which I placed in a plastic bag. I looked like a genuine Georgian, as this is their preferred manner in which to store belongings while traveling. With my plastic orange bag and purse, I set off to Gumati to meet Nathan. We caught a marshutka to Lanchkhuti and, as soon as we dislodged ourselves from the vehicle, we were treated to the ruthless return of the cold monsoon weather. Unable to find a marshutka to Ozurgeti due to the late hour of our search, we boarded a taxi to the big O, even though it was considerably more expensive, but did so out of necessity. The drive to Ozurgeti was unremarkable, and, shortly after our arrival, we were met by Caitlin’s host father, who took us to their house for supper. Caitlin explained how the train station attendant refused to sell her tickets to Tbilisi, because they were supposedly out. An experienced man in styles of transportation chicanery, Caitlin’s dad called bullshit, and proceeded to bribe the conductor. His persuasion skills, propensity to haggle, and superiority over our train ticket buying naivety accounted entirely for the amazingness that would soon become our weekend.

The train ride was a 6 or 7 hour overnight trip, and by a stroke of luck all three of us were placed in the same cabin, along with a complete stranger, an older woman who went to sleep on Caitlin’s bed as soon as she left to go use the bathroom (which are the most repulsive, nauseating, sickening things ever). When Caitlin returned, she was incensed to discover that this thief of a woman had seized her seat. A shit-fit ensued, lasting 2 minutes. Those are ballpark figures. Caitlin and I bonded over shared life experiences. Come to find out, we both had malicious and violently aggressive cats while growing up, which has left us permanently scarred. For a long time I thought I was the only one who had a cat who would hide in the corner of the stairs, where they turned, and spring out, attacking my leg whenever I would walk by in the middle of the night. What a peculiar oddity to share terrifying feline ownership stories. When we had run out of things to talk about, we dozed for a few hours until we reached Tbilisi, and, once off the train, headed to a hostel to drop our belongings off. At this juncture, it must have been around 7 a.m., and we were hungry. We had only snacked on grapes during our voyage, which Caitlin’s host mother sneaked into her chanta (bag). There was only one obvious choice for breakfast…the one place where Americans can feel, if just for a moment, like they’re right back home. I’m clearly referring to the omnipotent McDonalds, which, come to find out, doesn’t serve breakfast food. Ever. They also don’t have drive through windows-only walk up windows. We quickly scarfed down our grub, and began walking to the Radisson Hotel, where our TLG buses and buds would be waiting to venture off with us to Kakheti.

toilet on the train

While waiting to leave, we chit-chatted with other TlG’ers. This is when I met the infamous Kelly, a middle-aged man in his 50’s whose job repertoire is quite impressive, and who happened to be in Nathans training group. I introduced myself to him, and after the initial exchanging of names, Kelly introduced me to his ex-wife. This was exactly how he stated it. “I’m Kelly. This is my ex-wife.” I didn’t catch her name, because he referred to her as the “ex-wife” for the entire duration of our trip. I complimented Kelly on his coat, and instead of thanking me, he remarked, almost exuberantly, “this is my abortion coat!” You can imagine my reaction to this straight-forward and frank reply. Such a statement demands a story. “Really, an abortion coat. Go on.”  What the hell does that mean anyway? Kelly explained that he had a close friend in Russia. This man was an adulterer, and his mistress had become pregnant. She wanted an abortion but didn’t have the money for one. Although he had some misgivings about abortions, Kelly agreed to help out his friend, who was on board with the pregnancy termination. The adulterer lacked the cash to pay for the abortion, so Kelly lent him $300 dollars. He was later repaid $150. To make up for the other half, there was an exchanging of sorts. Kelly was given a long, black trench coat which he admired, and which belonged to the philanderer. Kelly acquired a new piece for his winter wardrobe, and thus the name ‘abortion coat.’

When we reached Kakheti, I learned that the president of Georgia would be gracing us with his presence. TLG had failed to mention this during our previous conversation. Our first activity consisted of picking grapes, which we had to do for hours. It felt like forced labor. After they (the vineyard owners I’m assuming) were pleased with all our hard work, we were allowed to mill about. This is where Misha, the president as he’s affectionately called, came swooping in from above on a sleek helicopter. After he landed, he began to mingle with us. I managed to both shake his hand AND nab a picture with him. 

Me and Misha

The following day, Caitlin, Nathan, and a recently acquired TLG friend (Adam, not the Aussie one) decided to go to Gori to attend an arts and music festival. The festival sounded nice, but I was much more enticed to actually catch a glimpse of Gori, where Stalin was born, and found it almost impossible to leave Mark, Jacob, and Rob so soon. I hadn’t been blessed with their presence for almost a month. To reach our destination, we crammed into a taxi. I mean ‘cram’ in the most literal sense. Somehow we fit all 6 of us-Nathan, Mark, Caitlin, Adam, Jacob and myself into this small vehicle. At the beginning of the trip, I sat in the front, half sitting on Jacobs lap. Was it uncomfortable? Absolutely. Was it hilarious? Yes, indeed. After 20 minutes or so in this discomfited position, our driver insisted that we put our seatbelt on. Apparently it’s safe to sit two people in the front a small car, but ONLY if they have their seatbelts on. Not too much longer after the seatbelt debacle, our driver became nervous that having two people in one seat in the front would get him in trouble with the police. He pulled over, and motioned for me to sit in the back, with Nathan, Caitlin, Adam, and Mark, who were already packed tight as sardines. No worries-I laid across them, because that’s sooo much safer than having two individuals in the front. The back was like a weird petting party, and Caitlin and Mark repeatedly groped my butt, arms, and legs. I’m not gonna lie, I kinda liked it. 

groping me in the car

We made it to Gori safe. We ate. Drank. Danced. Most importantly, we only caught about 3 minutes of the music festival. Three minutes max. But like I said earlier, my real intention was to spend as much time as possible with my Gori-ites. They’re precious to me, and time with them is always cherished. Somehow, the subject of Meth came up. Probably because I was informing Jacob of my problem with the ‘meth twins.’ According to Jacob, Crystal Meth is referred to as “P” in New Zealand, and meth heads are called P-addicts. He relayed about a story about a certain P-addict in New Zealand, who got hold of a samurai sword and chopped his girlfriends’ hands off. That would be a good anti-drug PA video: do meth, cut your partners hands off. The real gold in Gori was the fortress and the dismal animal enclosure they referred to as a zoo, which is open 24/7, with no admittance fee. Whoever built this animal entrapment must have hated bears, for these magnificent creatures were placed in the most depressing of cages I’ve ever seen. Only a bear bigot could create such horror. The cages smelled like urine, and scent, being the closest sense tied to memory, brought to my mind Turkish toilets, which smell like ripe urine. “Bears invented Turkish toilets Ren,” Rob said, after I ejaculated this thought aloud. It now all made sense-the bear bigot was getting his revenge-payback for the invention of Turkish toilets. I understand vengeance, but at some point, you just got to let some shit go. The cages were also far from safe. The bear bigot may also be a misanthrope. If I had so desired, I could have petted the bears. There was really nothing stopping me from doing so. It’s another one of those “only in Georgia” kind of deals. The zoo was set amidst a park, which also contained several rides and a Ferris wheel. Jacob and I climbed over the railing of one ride, he sat down, and I attempted to push him. We didn’t get very far, before we were shooed off by a security guard creeping around, who popped up out of nowhere. The park now offered only a heartbreaking exhibition of pent up animals, and so we embarked towards a fortress, climbed it, and once done, proceeded to the train station, to catch our overnight train back home.

very sad bear cage

crappy pic of the fortress

When I boarded the train, I was accosted by one of the workers. “Reni?” Wow, how did this guy know my name? He then showed me his I.D., and pointed to the last name. He was related to my host family. He invited me to his hideout, where he insisted that I drink some cha cha. He also placed a call to my host father to let him know I would be home soon. In contrast to our first train ride, we were all placed in separate cabins. These cabins were a bit nicer than their predecessors, with sliding doors for privacy and pillows. Caitlin went to bed early, but Nathan and I prattled on till 3 in the morning, all the while standing in the car connection junctures with periodic interruptions from passerby’s and train attendants. We talked about a little bit of this, and a little bit of that, and came up with solutions for Georgias trash problem. There’s so many abandoned buildings, we thought, why can’t they just put all the trash there? That way, they wouldn’t have to burn it, it would give people jobs, and it would make use out of the decaying structures. It’s genius. When I finally retired to my cabin for the night, to get my 1.5 hours of sleep, I found one of my cabin mates awake. This kind woman turned on the light, and made my bed for me. I quickly fell asleep, and was awoken at 4:30 a.m. by Nathan. “Ren, we’re at your stop.” “O.K. So I need to leave now?!” “Yes.” I grabbed my things as quickly as possible, said my goodbyes, and stepped off the train.

As soon as I disembarked, I was met, once again, with that damn cold monsoon weather. You know how sometimes it rains so hard when you’re driving, that, even with your windshields at full speed you still can’t see? That’s how this rain was, except I wasn’t driving, I was walking. The situation was only made worse by the darkness of the night. There are no street lights here, so I had to use my intimate knowledge of the village roads to walk back to my house, all the while traversing through a foot of flooded street water in winter temperatures. When I finally arrived home, I ran to the bathroom, and stood there shivering for a few minutes. My host mother found me, helped me disrobe, and placed a towel and blanket around me until I warmed up enough to return to my room. I didn’t make it to school that day, because I was tired and felt like shit. I received a thorough bitching out from my mom about this little mishap, but she failed to notice several important points. First of all, calling a taxi would have been out of the question. End of story. Secondly, I was already drenched as soon as I stepped out of the train, so I couldn’t find shelter and wait it out. Thirdly, an umbrella wouldn’t have helped because of the wind and severity of the rain. The weather conditions would have annihilated any average umbrella. None of this mattered anyway, because I didn’t get sick, and only consider myself a bit better for the ware.

The following weekend, Collette, James, Nathan, and myself took a day trip to Batumi, to visit the botanical gardens, which are the second largest in the world by the way. James ended up coming through the gates at the other end of the gardens, so we spent a good while searching for him. The gardens offered an opportunity to act like a kid again: I climbed tress, swung in vines, got dirty, walked across bridges. No one enjoyed themselves more than the entranced Nathan, who has a passion for botany. It was like he was a 5 year old in Disneyland. Collette, who is now referred to as the Oracle of Tskaltsminda (oracle because of her mystic like traits and Tskaltsminda because that’s the name of her village) made comments along the walking paths befitting of her nickname. “Look at this tree! See, this is where fairies would live, in these trees, because they have these knobbles in them, and that’s where they would have their fairy village.” Oh Collette, such a visionary.

We had insightful conversations as we traversed the gardens. Collette revealed part of her motivation for coming to Georgia, which partially consisted of escaping the middle age lack of spontaneity and adventure. She hungered for the new, which many of us TLG’ers crave, I think, as well. “I don’t want to go to Applebees. I don’t want to spend my weekends sitting around with people my age while they talk about their ouchies.” “Is that what your age demographic is into these days?” Nathan asked. James, a TLG’er I met at the Batumi opera, told stories of his previous teaching experience in South Korea, and parleyed information about his host family. It seems that South Korea consisted of a few strange situations involving lecherous women. As for the host family, James got the hook up-he has air conditioner, internet, his own bathroom, a washing machine, and a maid. It’s the most luxurious living arrangements I’ve ever heard of from a TLG’er. Even with all these modern comforts, his host family still showers only once a week. They also don’t use their dishwasher, which James found to be a repository for rice and granola. WTF Georgia- a dishwasher is not a place to store food! The host brother is a bit of a character. This guy frequents Ukrainian hookers, and sometimes, he boasts, he doesn’t even have to pay, due to his regular customer status. This, despite the fact that he has a girlfriend. It’s vile and revolting, not only on a moral level but on a Public Health one as well. After the gardens, we walked down to the Black Sea, and found a scenic spot in which to lie out. We explored caves and climbed rocks as well. The picturesque day ended with a meal at a Ukrainian restaurant, just to honor James’ host brother. 

climbing at botanical gardens

The night ended in Ureki, a town which Simon thinks is weird. Nathan and I bought a bottle of cha cha, and decided we would start a bonfire on the beach. We began walking towards the coast, but the path was abruptly switched. Two Georgians were standing outside an establishment with blaring music and the type of noise that could only come from a large group of people. We figured it was a party. The Georgians spotted us (they can spot an American from a mile away), and asked us to come inside for a drink. The presumed party turned out to be a wedding. Only in Georgia would two complete strangers, dressed in street clothes, be invited to come in for a wedding celebration. The revelers insisted we drink and eat. And so we did. Nathan was made to down wine out of horns, yes, horns, and I was obliged to drink multiple shots of cognac and cha cha, of course, in addition to wine. They don’t sip wine here, they chug it. In between the drinking, there was dancing, and the Georgians would argue over who got to dance with me. At one point, I must have had 5 people tugging on my appendages, and it felt like they were going to tear my arms off. Still cognizant of our desire to have a bonfire on the beach, we managed to slip away as politely as we could, but not before one of the guests insisted that we take home a bottle of cha cha. Now we had two bottles of this liquid poison. Once at the beach, we gathered sticks and set about constructing our fire. I find it pleasing that you can start fires on beaches here. You try that shit in the states and you’re looking at some serious fines.

When I returned home, I found the house rearranged, and the fridge had disappeared. No idea where it went or where they are now storing food. That’s another mystery to be solved. I went up to my room to read, until Nana bust through my door screaming “Skeni (horse)!!!” Naturally, whenever I hear the word horse, I go where told. At the bottom of my stairs, there was indeed a horse, who was strapped to a cart hauling some lumber. Nana just wanted me to see the animal, not ride it. They take my love for horses way too seriously. We ate a carb filled dinner that night, a techno dinner, which was a nice change from the techno that usually plays during sauzme (breakfast). The carbicide included bread (this is eaten at EVERY meal), fried potatoes, and rice. I’m going to start exercising using my instructional videos I brought with me. There’s only one problem-I have to do it outside, because my room is too small. They’re going to see me, ask what I’m doing, and once I explain they still won’t understand, and then I’ll look like a raging lunatic while dashing about the porch doing squat thrusts and jumping jacks.