Oh, the places you will go and the people you will meet, Pt. II

Getting into a decent marshutka, or acquiring a good driver for that matter, is really a game of odds. On the way from Kazbegi to Tbilisi, we (myself, Mark, and Simon) were fitted into a packed marhsutka, with a decent driver, who wore a red cardigan. Cardigans are almost always appropriate, and, as Simon put it, “they demand respect.” Our driver only stopped once, at a roadside group of vendors which included elderly women selling over-priced handmade goods, including a hat I badly wanted but wasn’t willing to spend 30 Lari on. Simon desired a pair of brightly colored, 80’s inspired wool socks, but also wasn’t about to shell out a ridiculous amount of Lari for them; in other words, he didn’t 15 Lari want them. Besides, he was only “going to keep them in his drawer for 10 to 20 years, and take them out, on occasion, for a hike, which would only occur rarely.” Once in Tbilisi, we scoured the marshutka station for Caitlin, whom we found with relative ease. I love looking for a marshutka. I simply go up to a driver, throw my hands up in a confused, questionable fashion, and ask “Borjomi?” or whatever city I’m trying to get to, then all the marshutka drivers argue for a bit and then direct you in the correct direction. 

typical marshutka

Then it was Borjomi departure time. The great thing about this country is that you can have absolutely no plans: no hotel reservations needed. Once in Borjomi, we began searching for a place to rest our heads. The first hotel we visited was too pricey, so we started meandering aimlessly throughout the streets. A group of old Georgian men playing chess caught on to our tourist scent, and one of them approached us shouting something about “satsumro, satsumro (hotel).” We all replied with “otsi, otsi (20),” to signify that we were only able to pay 20 Lari a night. “Ok, ok. No problem, let’s go,” said the  aged man, as he began walking towards his car, intent on driving us to a hotel. Simon was a bit hesitant about getting into a car with a stranger, and seemed to be more comfortable with walking. Ever the bargain hunter, I asked the man how much it would be for him to drive us to the hotel. “Ram deni lari (how much),´ I asked. “Ara, ara (no, no),” he responded. I’m all about getting free stuff, so I started to head in the direction of the car with the friendly stranger; Simon was forced to follow, as the rest of the group always appreciates a free ride. Besides, he was old, seemed legit, and there were three of us. If things had gone awry, we could have taken him. The man turned out to be a hotel owner, and he drove us a short distance to a Soviet era hotel which, upon first sight, seemed completely abandoned. There was absolutely nothing in the lobby, and the outside was a bit run down. Never let a cover fool you, however, looks can be deceiving: the inside was actually pretty nice in a melancholy, haunting kind of way. It was settled, we would stay in love potion room #9 for the night, and perhaps a few more nights, depending on the vibe Borjomi gave.

hotel lobby

front of the hotel

The Borjomi vibe turned out to be great, even though Simon the BAMF left early, and missed out on some fun nights. At first, Mark, Caitlin, and I blamed Borjomi for Simon leaving, but then decided it wasn’t Borjomi’s fault that Simon didn’t come, it was Simons fault he didn’t Borjomi come. This great line was stated by me, and Mark loved my modern day Shakespearean style prose. Borjomi turned out to be my favorite city that I’ve visited, thus far, in Georgia. It’s a town full of giggles and chuckles; a place where you don’t find your destination, but destination finds you. It’s a town full of more than friendly locals, who will point you in the direction of wine markets; a place with beautiful architecture of brightly contrasting colors, including pink railings, bright blue balconies, and electric yellow buildings. In fact, a holy man even walked past me in Borjomi and blessed me. It gets even better-we had a cow in our backyard at the hotel, and Caitlin loved my drunken cow impression (the cow seemed drunk). Our first restaurant experience at Batumi was truly shocking: the food was varied, delicious, and brought out quickly, even on par with American standards. They also served a type of “sauce” which tasted just like authentic Mexican salsa. Ah Borjomi, it’s absolutely amazing, I can’t say it enough. The excellence continued into the next day, when we departed for the cave city of Vardzia. One of the female hotel workers had handed Mark a cell phone the previous day, and he spoke with someone who informed us of how to get to Vardzia via marshutka. On our way to Tbilisi from Kazbegi, we had spoken with another ex-pat who was teaching English in Turkey, and who had previously visited Vardzia from Borjomi. He told us we could expect to pay at least 25 Lari a night for a hotel/hostel and 30 Lari for a roundtrip drive to and from Vardzia. Well, I guess we’re just lucky, or the woman Mark spoke to was “an incarnation of God,” as he put it. As luck would have it, we managed to hop on a private 15 Lari roundtrip marshutka ride with a bunch of Russians and Azerbaijani people. Mark committed another faux-pas on this trip, as he kept referring to the Azerbaijani people as the “Armenians, because he always gets those two mixed up.” Oh, Mark, at it again.

The marshutka ride was one of the best I’ve ever had. Here are some highlights:

1)     1. The music. One song had lyrics that went a little like this, “will you touch my tra la la, my ding ding dong.”

2)      2.Random stops at a fortress, the Green Church, and a completely unexpected picnic, where the Azerbaijani and Russian women fed us hot dogs, bread, cucumbers, and hard boiled eggs set amidst a flowing stream. Also, some dogs came running out of the woodworks to try to catch some grub, and one of the dogs was an extremely adorable little spaz.

3)      3.The Russians and Azerbaijanis kept trying to get pictures with us. We allowed this, of course. Who doesn’t love feeling like a celebrity and being fed?

Standing by the river

adorable spaz dog, I wanted to take her home sooo bad

I have no idea where these women obtained food from, but people in this region are like food magicians. One moment there’s no food, and then, almost suddenly, food appears, and you’re told to “tchame, tchame (eat, eat), until you’re stuffed, no matter how many times you’ve said “ara, ar minda (no, I can’t).” After Vardzia, Mark, Caitlin, and I went to the store to buy some delicious wine. Then it was balcony party time back at the satsumro (hotel), where we had a mix of 80’s, 90’s, and oldies tunes to rock out to. Also, we listened to some Jet (“Look what you’ve done”) and a few other songs with downbeat melodies to prepare for Marks departure the following day. The morning Mark left was a sad day indeed, but before he peaced out to go teach the po po’s in Kazbegi how to speak right, he joined us for a delicious breakfast. Food joints around Georgia never seem to open early, so it’s always difficult to find a place to eat in the a.m. As Caitlin has pointed out, I’m now known to be the one who talks to strangers all the time, so I approached a group of men and asked them “sad aris sauzme (where is breakfast)?” Mark started cracking up, and pointed out how caveman and absurd the question was. “Just imagine going up to someone in America and asking that: where is breakfast?” He’s right, it is pretty silly, but my Georgian is a bit lacking. Like every other person in Borjomi, they walked us for a bit and then pointed in a direction where evidently breakfast would be available. The restaurant we picked out was fabulous, because Borjomi can do no wrong. Caitlin had the best French fries ever: they were drenched in butter and some delicious seasoning. The menu even served such fare as “wild fire mushrooms.” Mark ordered a kebob, and he almost hit Caitlin and I in the face with his long iron skewer. “No one deserves to be hit in the face with a kebob,” Mark apologized, “except maybe Jon Bon Jovi.” Good point.

Not long after breakfast, Mark had to eat and run to get back to his mountains. Caitlin and I sat alone, disheartened, missing Mark, Simon, and Tom. It was a sad, sad, day. From almost the moment we met, Caitlin and I had been talking about riding horses, and Borjomi was to be our moment to shine. We were unable to find the National Park Station, where we needed to register to ride said magnificent creatures. Not to worry, our helpful and informative friend, Artur, who worked in the Borjomi tourist center, helped us to flag down a taxi and take us to the horses. When we finally got to the station, we had to wait a bit while the rangers, or whatever they were, finished talking to a group of Israeli backpackers and a lone Lithuanian, who Caitlin kept mistaking for a Ukrainian. Greg, Mark, and Caitlin are always getting their countries mixed up. When they finally got around to us, we were informed that we would have only one hour to ride, since we came in too late. Sorry park people, we didn’t get the horse schedule memo. As we were about to leave, our hotel owner showed up. Caitlin and I both gave each other some perplexed WTF faces. How did this guy find us, and how did he know we would be at the park station? We thought quickly, and remembered that we had interrupted his game of chess earlier to ask for directions to the station, before we gave up our search and sought out Artur. The hotel owner drove us back to the city square, where he told us he would pick us up in an hour to take us to Lankati, where the horses would be. Hotel owner was the first Georgian I’ve met who runs on GMT (Georgian Maybe Time), and he was late, so we flagged down a taxi.

The taxi ride was only 5 Lari, but our driver didn’t have change for a 10 so he ended up getting a pretty big tip. We were dropped off in front of what appeared to be a tourist register center, but turned out to be a cottage with a bed in it, and it smelled like urine and wild animals. By this time, the taxi driver had already driven off, and Caitlin and I were stuck in the middle of the Borjomi wild forest, with no phone (I had lost mine a few days earlier and Caitlin had turned hers off-unbeknownst to her, you have to have a pin to turn your phone back on). We were being set up for those all too familiar horror stories, where the Americans get lost and murdered, never to be seen again. As we were sitting down, contemplating what to do next, and dreading the long walk back to the main road to hail a taxi, the Lithuanian we had seen earlier at the park station passed by. We told him of our dilemma. Unimpressed and un-amused with our quandary, he wished us the best of luck and continued on his way. Then, like a miracle, a knight in blue denim came galloping out of the thicket of the forest. When he saw our dazed, confused, and downtrodden faces, he slowed to a trot, and I instinctively yelled out, “do you speak English?” “No,” he said, “Russian.” Great, because I know about 5 Russian words. When he finally stopped his horse, which he was riding bareback, we tried our best to communicate that we were supposed to ride horses here, and we gave him our permission slip to be in the forest, which was given to us beforehand by the park rangers. He looked it over, made a few phone calls, and told us “10 minutes, no problem.” Off he galloped, with our permission slip in hand. I pessimistically told Caitlin that he was never coming back. Much to my surprise, he re-appeared in 10 minutes, and kept his word. He came back with his horse, who now donned a saddle, and a fellow friend of his. He instructed us to get on the horse, and Caitlin sat on the saddle while I was placed behind her, riding bareback. Who’s the BAMF now Simon? He and his friend led us through a trail in the national park. While on our ride, we passed the Lithuanian, who spoke Russian, and told us not to fear the random men, as they were good guys. The name of the horse was Maria, and she had a tendency to ride in the murkiest of places; I was covered in dirt, spider webs, and leaves by the end of the trip. Along the trails, we were treated with delicious wild blackberries, vashlee (apples), and fresh mountain spring water, which was nicely chilled. 

Riding bareback, with Caitlin

Caitlin with the horse guy

After a 5-7 hour horse ride, the two men called up one of their friends, who spoke English, and asked us if we wanted to go to dinner with them. At first they said something about a fire, which I took to mean a bonfire; Caitlin thought they said “fire car.” We rode Maria into town, and arrived back at the Russians house, which was a full blown bachelor pad. They offered us internet, cookies, and coffee. I declined the coffee, just in case it was laced with GHB. After several minutes, we walked toward the main road, hopped into a taxi, and headed off back to our hotel, where we grabbed our translating book, and then were whisked away to a restaurant. Once at the eatery, the horse guys ordered an insane amount of khinkali and khatchupuri, as well as some ludi (beer) and several shots of cha cha (vodka). At one point, the lights went off, and our server brought out some candles, which prompted one of the guys to say “romantic.”After dinner, we walked around the city with the horse guys for an hour or two; it was hard to get away from them. When we finally managed to lose them, we ran up to our room and collapsed into a peaceful and much needed rest. The best part of the experience was that we only paid 25 Lari each, which the horse guys used to pay for our dinner. As we left the next day, we were unable to find any hotel workers to pay for our stay. As I mentioned earlier, the lobby is completely empty, with no receptionist whatsoever. Unable to find any hotel workers, we left our money and key in the room, hopeful that the right person would find it. Georgia places great emphasis on the honor system.

Borjomi was simply a bastion of happiness, and offered up a rock star weekend. Just like a prayer, Borjomi will take you there. The Borjomi trio, including myself, came up with an A-Z list to describe this wondrous city. Here it goes:

A-awesome

B-beautiful

 C-cathartic

D-delightful

 E-elegant

 F-fantastic

G-grandiose

H-herculean

 I-inspiring

J-joyful

K-kick ass

L-lovable

N-nostalgic

O-open

P-promethean

Q-quiet

 R-regal

 S-succulent

T-tantalizing

 U-ultimate

 V-validating

W- warm

 X-xena-ish

 Y-yahoo (yay)

 Z-zippity dippity do

We left the next day to head home. We were unable to find a marshutka to Ozurgeti, where Caitlin lives, so we took a marshutka to Kutaisi, excited to eat at McD’s again and use the free internet. Once in Kutaisi, and at the safe haven of the American embassy, we met a few fellow TLG’ers. One of the TLG’ers, a man from Australia, showed us a video of a car wreck he had filmed earlier. There was a dead body sitting in the car, in plain sight, while policeman stood idly about, smoking cigarettes and chit-chatting. Only in Georgia…

After McD’s, we had no luck in finding a marshutka back to Ozurgeti, so we took a cab instead. Our cab driver drove like a fugitive, at 140 kph, twisting and turning about through the mountain roads. The way he drove, you would of thought there were at least 12 police cars behind him, sirens blaring and all. No worries, he got us back to Caitlin’s host family in no time at all. Once in the safety of Ozurgeti, and at the home of Caitlin’s (C’s) host family, we were immediately instructed to sit down to eat. I had the pleasure of meeting C’s infamous host aunt, whose name I can’t remember, although I know there’s a tuna in there somewhere, so that’s what I’ll call her. Tuna pretty much forced us to finish off a bottle of cognac. Once the bottle was depleted, she gave us full shots of cha-cha (vodka) which we had to down as well. After this drinking and eating fest, we were treated to some Georgian dancing by C’s host brother. When he was finished doing his thing, they put on “Wakka wakka” by Shakira. I don’t know why, but they love to listen to this song over and over again and watch Georgian dubbed Spanish soap operas. I hate it. The evening came with a bit of success: many Georgians, when they prepare meat dishes, leave a great deal of fat on the meat. I guess they like the taste of it, which is utterly revolting in my opinion. Of course, Caitlin hates the fat too, and her family has had difficulty understanding why she doesn’t eat it. I’ve become a master of charades, so I managed to communicate her dislike of the fat by grabbing a piece of fat on my oblique’s while making a face of revulsion and saying ara, ara (no, no). Then, sensing this opportune moment, C grabbed a piece of fat and a good piece of meat, while saying “no” to the fatty piece and “yes” to the non-fatty piece. They got the point, and hopefully will no longer encourage her to eat the gooey gunk.

The next day, Caitlin’s host family went to Batumi, and drove me to some church to meet up with Tuna. Tuna placed me in a car with a man I’ve never met before, and he began to drive me…somewhere. Somewhere turned out to be, thankfully, a marshutka station. For the entire drive, which was short-lived, he kept speaking to me about some Georgian singer, who was playing on the stereo, while asking me “you like, you like?” To avoid any arguments, I just said yes, even though the artist was clearly terrible. When we arrived at the station, he placed me on a marshutka heading towards Lanchutki, the biggest city, if you could call it that, next to my tiny village. Using my excellent marshutka locating skills, I navigated my way towards a large Mercedes marshutka bound for my village. The driver looked exactly like Alex Trebek, and he offered me a meal of puri (bread) and sulguni (cheese). I reluctantly accepted to be polite, after he repudiated several of my rejections. I was seated next to a woman with a full blown mustache, and a young boy who wouldn’t stop singing “wakka, wakka.” I don’t think I’ll ever be able to escape that wretched song.

Overall, it was an amazing week. I had the time of my life, and I owe it all to you Borjomi. I made several wishes in this astounding wilderness town, and I think they’re going to come to fruition. After all, Borjomi is a magical land, where if ye ask, ye shall receive. 

In Borjomi, you just may find yourself. Caitlin and I found Narnia

Oh, the places you will go and the people you will meet, Pt. I

Nigvziani-Kutaisi-Tbilisi-Kazbegi-Tbilisi-Borjomi-Vardzia-Borjomi-Kutaisi-Ozurgeti-Nigvziani

The dashes and cities listed above serve to elucidate my hectic one week of travel throughout Georgia. It was refreshing to not only be around English speakers again but to be in such great company. I have to take a quick moment to applaud my comrades, who are a bit crazy, creative in their own unique ways, adventurous, kind, interesting, open-minded, and wonderful old souls. I’ve divided the trip up into two separate parts, as I have a lot to say about the fabulous Borjomi adventure. The shenanigans began after “training” and meeting with our principals and English co-teachers in the seaside town of Ureki, not far from my village. Caitlin, Greg, and the Aussie slept at my house that night, and apparently bonded with my host family. In fact, just this afternoon, my host sisters kept telling me that Caitlin was a “very, very good girl,” and that Greg “has tattoos and is very strong.” They’re so sweet, bless their hearts. The walk to the train station (where you catch the marshutka) is about a 2 mile walk (I’m just making this up, I really have no idea) from my house, although I had to drag my over stuffed suitcase along a gravel road with potholes larger than anything you can imagine. The potholes here really make the ones back home in New Orleans laughable. Yes, they’re that bad. When we finally reached the road side by the train station, we waited, in the blistering sun, for an uncertain length of time. All the while, I was drenched in sweat and miserably regretting my tendency to over pack to the extreme. Multiple marshutkas heading to Tbilisi, the first city of our destination, were completely full, so we decided to head to Kutaisi first (Georgia’s second largest city) with the hopes of finding a marshutka that had available space to Tbilisi.

Elation overcame us all as we stopped in Kutaisi, at the American embassy, A.K.A. McDonald’s. McDonald’s was a glorious sight for two reasons: 1) Free internet, hallelujah and 2) Big Macs and French fries. We stuffed our gluttonous faces with fried and greasy foods, and enjoyed some free time on the net. Our departure from McD’s was a bit depressing, but Tbilisi called, and we answered. Once in the big T, we checked in at a hostel and headed for the nearest bar to celebrate our successful journey. Some of us celebrated a little bit too much, and ended up staying out till 5-6 am’ish. I don’t remember the name of the bar, but it was one of those establishments, hidden in the dark crevices, which you would never find had you not known of its existence beforehand, except with knowledge obtained from a previous patron. Thankfully, our police teaching amigo Ashley led the way. This dimly lit, smoke filled bar was pretty much a dive, had a Nitendo, and was filled with tunes played by a random group of Georgians armed with a guitar and knowledge of English songs, including oldies and more modern day rock like Franz Ferdinand and Oasis. Shortly before leaving the bar, I met several Irishman, and thus began my acquaintance with Tom, whom I jokingly refer to as Dr. Potato, but only if he gets out of line (Dr because he’s armed with a Ph.D and potato because…he’s Irish; Mad Mark calls him the Irish loveboat). Unfortunately for Tom, his travel buds were leaving to go back to Ireland the next day. That left him with 2 days of nothingness in Tbilisi, although I’m sure he would have found something exciting to partake in. Being the overly friendly person that I am, I invited him to join our group for our excursion to Kazbegi the following day, to see our dear jolly friend Mad Mark. Surprisingly, he accepted the invitation to join our motley crew.

The drive to Kazbegi was beautiful and comfortable, especially through the winding mountain roads; the marshutka was a small one, and we were only joined by a Slovakian couple. Upon seeing such mountains, Aussie Adam squealed, the type of squeal which only emanates from a child, who, upon seeing presents under the tree on Christmas morning, lets out a sound of delight. It was, in other words, glorious. Once in the dreamy hills, our driver made a side stop to a small village. He pulled in front of an elderly womans home, and the senior citizen was perched upon her porch, rocking back and forth in a small chair. The marshutka driver said a few choice words in Georgian, which none of us understood. In an attempt to frighten us, Caitlin stated “that loosely translates into sex slavery.” Greg was o.k. with this, as long “as he got paid.” Obviously Greg misunderstands the term slavery. Luckily for us, this wasn’t the case, and the driver made some sort of exchange with the squeaky pitched voice spry Georgian woman and hopped back in to resume the drive towards Kazbegi. Our driver was more than accommodating, and stopped at multiple areas on our way through the mountains. One roadside attraction was an ancient church, see picture below.

Once at Nunu’s guesthouse in the striking mountain town of Kazbegi, we met up with our fellow TLG’ers. Simon the BAMF was there, and when I first saw him he was “just picking a dandelion.” Typical. The first course of action was to tchame (eat) and have ludi saatia (beer time). We picked a café nearby, and were treated with the typical Georgian restaurant service: extremely slow. I was starving, and impatient for my Khatchapuri. Mad Mark helped to ease my nerves a bit, by constantly retorting “shits coming homes!” It finally did come, and it was alright. Ludi saatia later gave way to ghvino saatia (wine time) once back at the guesthouse. We didn’t have anything to undo the cork, so Jacob, the New Zealander, showed us a little trick he learned back at the home front: placing a bottle of wine in a shoe and slamming against a hard surface, gradually applying pressure and releasing the cork. It worked the first time, but on the second try Jacob shattered the bottle, garnering some nasty cuts on his hand. Ever ready to cheer people up, Mad Mark provided Jacob with some chuckles, and therefore helped relieve his pain, by telling him about a recent faux-pas. During a toast with the policeman he was teaching English to, Mark toasted to nasha, which, come to find out, is a bad word in Georgian, meaning slut. Way to go Mark, cheering to ho’s!

Mountain climbing began the next day, and I, albeit a bit reluctantly, went along for the climb. As a below sea-level Louisianian, who has never before climbed a mountain, my performance was quite pitiful. One of the best climbers of our group was, as you might of guessed, Simon the BAMF, who climbed the mountain with ease and grace, all the while carrying a backpack filled with our heavy containers of water (the Aussie helped later on), while smoking cigarettes. It was unsurprising, to say the least. The view from the top was breathtaking, and I was glad I went through all the trouble to catch the view from the monastery atop the mountain.

Unfortunately, our group disbanded the following day, and our group for the Borjomi trip consisted of myself, Mark, and Caitlin, who would later meet us in Tbilisi after an ill-fated decision to head to Svaneti with the boys. Saying good-bye to Tom was hard for all us. It’s rare to meet such an intelligent, cultured, interesting, and kind person. Simon would like to climb glaciers one day with Tom, Caitlin would like to eat snacks with him, and Mark would want to climb emotional glaciers and drink Jameson with him.

“Now I'm zonin, seein' things so vivid, I'm a soul, nah homie, not even, Imma zone out till I lose feeling,
Remember Imma be gone way past November, even stay up there, up there; floatin, floatin, hopin I could find peace somewhere.”

Batumi: Blazing the Trail

My trip to Batumi was the first time I was allowed to venture off by myself, as my host family is genuinely concerned for me: they don’t want to lose the American. I began my marshutka ride accompanied by my neighbor and a man who I assumed was her husband. Actually, I didn’t assume- I asked Nino (my host sister) if this was the case and she responded with “Ho, ho, ho (yes, yes, yes).” Never make an assumption in Georgia, and never accept an answer from someone who doesn’t speak fluent English. Lesson learned. The marshutka was packed, but this was to be expected. The “husband” of my neighbor was particularly nice and chatty with me, and I soon learned why. Upon near arrival of my destination-Batumi- he asked for my number, and I naively gave it to him, thinking he would help me out in case I needed anything. Wrong. It turned out this man was not my neighbor’s husband, but a former pupil, I think, and he had the hots for me. He began to call my phone almost immediately; this lasted for several days. He may still call my phone, but I wouldn’t know, as I lost it a few days ago.

Once in Batumi, and off the marshutka, I was met by my host uncle, who showed me where our hostel was. Almost immediately upon entering the hostel, I received a negative vibe. So did my uncle, who threw his hands up and began uttering incoherent phrases in Georgian. I was the first to arrive, so I waited until Greg appeared to discuss what to do, and where we should stay next, as the hostel was unacceptable. We decided to wait for Caitlin, Rad Rob, Jacob, and Simon the BAMF to discuss our next plan of action. At this moment, my stomach decided to start conducting flips and turns, which didn’t help our million hour journey to search for a new accommodation. Fortuitously, we found a shagtastic pad right on the main avenue in Batumi (Rustaveli), within walking distance to the Black Sea. The apartment was owned by a family, who were willing and excited to make a few bucks off a few tourists who needed a place to crash…as soon as we walked in, they began packing and left their home to relocate to God knows where. Ah, the hospitality and kindness of Georgians. The shagtastic pad had a balcony, which Simon accidentally locked, and an unfathomable, unworkable toilet (at least to our Western sensibilities). Luckily for us, we stumbled upon a café across the street, which served not only delicious food, but had a beautiful, grandiose western style toilet. Our mornings consisted of going to the café, eating, and using the toilet to do our business. Nice.

Our shagtastic pad. Trust me, it was pretty rad on the inside...and had a baller balcony

I’d like to take a moment to complain. The restaurants in Batumi, or Georgia in general, are known for epically slow service. Slow -as in 30 minutes to an hour- for the simplest of delicacies. Furthermore, they rarely have items listed on the menu, and if they don’t, they offer you khatchapuri. No, I don’t want the damn cheese bread, I want that thing I pointed to; make it happen people. If you want pizza here, you’d be wise to think again, unless of course you love mayo, because they slather it on everything, including pizza; this is a major no no for a pizza aficionado like myself. Lastly, they bring out your food separately, so that one member of your party may be done well before you finish. I don’t get it. One more point of contempt: the amount of gypsies in the major cities here. These people are ballsy, and will simply come up to you and demand money by saying, “lari, lari; money, money.” C’mon, can’t you at least do a trick or something?

Onto the wonderful points of Batumi…my fellow TLG’ers. As usual, Simon was a BAMF. How’s this for a BAMF: I’m strolling along Rustaveli Avenue, side by side with Simon, chatting away, until Simon suddenly interjects: “hold on real quick, let me push this car.” He then proceeded to help push a car, in the same fashion as my family does to start our Little Miss Sunshine van. His general acts of badassery never cease to amaze me. All of us have interesting toilet experiences. Some of us have normal western style toilets, but some are not so lucky and have holes in the ground (literally) or toilets that are tricky to flush. Simon is one of those who, and I say with all seriousness, has a trickster toilet. He explained that he has broken the toilet several times, and he feels awful for repeatedly making his host family fix it. In an attempt to resolve this issue, he describes how he may just leave floaters from now on and blame it on someone else. Do you see how badass he is? Here’s some additional badassery: comedies are not for Simon, because he doesn’t, in his own words, find them funny.

A quite interesting moment in this city was provided by none other than the owner of our shagtastic pad. As I was standing on the balcony one day, enjoying the cool afternoon breeze, I noticed said owner standing below, near his car, flailing his arms about like a mad man. This was quite perplexing to me. Jacob, seemingly excellent at interpreting non-verbal language, immediately understood what was requested of us, and ordered us to run down to meet him, to go for a drive. Aussie Adam and I responded quickly, racing down the stairs, filled with curiosity as to what this possibility would offer. Once in the car, our temporary landlord took us on an impromptu tour of the city. The drive wasn’t so much a tour, but was more akin to a theme park ride, if said theme park ride tempted fate. The driver of this voyage had the windows rolled down, and he drove at least 70 M.P.H.; all the while Billy Joel was blasting from the stereo, and beer was drunk (yes, he bought us beers to drink as well, and condoned drinking and driving). While giving us this “tour”, he constantly, and intermittently screamed “fuck the police” and “BATUMIIIIII.” In other words, this guy is my idol. He’s mad, and that’s just how I like them.

The end of my trip provided me with a glimpse of hell, and hell, my dear friends, is a marshutka station. Envisage this: it’s hot (but that’s a given), filled with gypsies begging for money, acrid smelling, and blaring with DMX and other 90’s rap tunes. It’s miserable. Other than the ending, the Batumi trip was pleasant, filled with good company, laughs, adventures, and interesting experiences. All was well, despite Rad Rob spreading the plague with his consistent coughing (he’s better now, if you’re concerned). I will leave you with some words of advice from my peers, courtesy of Jacob and Greg, who are as wise as Plato himself. Enjoy.

Greg: “Never tell a woman she wasn’t the best you ever had.”

Jake, in response: “Unless of course she’s a hooker, then it’s just constructive criticism.”

One Step at a Time: Living on the Line

Training for teaching and living in Georgia was boring and intense. On our last day, we were all adopted by our new families and whisked away to a village or city to start our adventures. Collette, a middle-aged hot mama, was the chosen one who would spend the next 4.5 hours riding from Tbilisi to Guria with me. We were picked up by our principals and a random dude, and rode in style in a BMW. Our comrades for the ride spoke not one word of English. Our driver was the random dude, whose name I didn’t catch. I also have no idea who he was, but he was uncle. Who’s? I have no idea, but he was definitely an uncle to someone. Packing our luggage into the trunk was a China sized ordeal, and literally took 44574985 hours of various puzzle style luggage arrangements until they finally realized all of our crap wasn’t going to fit. I guess its Georgia’s version of the old how many clowns can you fit into a Beetle scenario. Finally, they decided that our luggage would be brought to us by a marshukta (van), which meant that it could probably be lost. Spoiler alert: against all odds, it actually made it to us in one piece. I was crammed in the middle for the ride, next to Collette’s principal who kept winking at me and tried to hook me up with random driver man, since we both weren’t married, which I guess translates to single and ready to mingle. I didn’t know how to say “No way sistah” in Georgian so I made a face of disgust in the politest way possible and said “ara, ara, ara” (no) over and over again while shaking my head in a seizure-esque fashion. On a completely unrelated note, the female principal would do the Catholic cross thing-a-ma-jiggy every time we passed a church. Back to the car ride…the feast of a ride served up Khatchapuri and various fruits, like watermelon, plums, etc., which we bought at fruit stands along the way. Apparently, buying fruit takes approximately 20 minutes. Paying for a watermelon became a group decision, complete with bickering, pausing, contemplating, and then more bickering till finally the damn thing was purchased. Purchasing fruit Georgian style manages to be both hilarious and frustrating simultaneously. Fruit stands weren’t the only delightful attractions along the way. There was multiple stands for clay pots, baskets, and hammocks; you just don’t get all these roadside attractions in America…you’d have to take an exit. Georgians make buying shit so convenient. 

Random Fruit Stand

Georgians are winning, in a major way, when it comes to driving like they want to commit suicide. NASCAR doesn’t have shit on your average driver while out on the road. I really think Britney Spears should move here, because it ain’t no thang to drive with an infant sitting on your lap. You could probably drink and drive with said baby on lap too. I do, however, admire a few things about Georgian drivers that I would love to do back in the States. In fact, I’ve often fantasized about doing such things but then images of the po po’s flashed before me and I thought more wisely. Damn the consequences. What are such things I speak of? Allow me to elaborate. First, Georgians drive on the shoulder of the road to pass up stiffs or slow moving traffic. Awesome. Secondly, Georgians follow police vehicles with their sirens on to pass as well. Equally awesome. Why can’t this be legit? It really speeds things up. As an adrenaline junkie, I have to say I find it kind of thrilling that Georgian drivers pass up vehicles, including 18 wheelers, with mere milliseconds to complete this deathtifying feat. It’s like Frogger, but in real life.

I know and understand that drivers get total control of the radio, but it was a bit miserable to have to listen to Enrique Inglesias for 2 hours. He’s much loved here, as is Rap and Techno. Our magical BMW ride smelled a lot like B.O., and Enrique Inglesias didn’t help with increasing enjoyment. What did help was the various going ons occurring on the side of the road: marshutka wrecks, little old ladies sweeping with dwarf sized brooms (yes, they had giant humps on their back); and an insane amount of cows, chickens, pigs, and other edible animals wandering along the streets with no concern for mankanas (cars). Livestock lives it up in Georgia when compared to the factory farms in the US of A. Other animals, however, don’t have it so well. Let’s just say PETA would have a shit fit here. Dogs in particular are treated pretty poorly. There’s tons wandering the streets, half starved, mangy, and mad. I actually managed to save a kitty cat in Tbilisi from his final destination by picking him up and swooning him off to safety from a car backing up at full speed. I don’t mind screwing around with survival of the fittest.

After our mystical journey, we arrived at my principal’s house for an impromptu dinner. Sounds normal right? Only you have to remember that in Georgia, things are never as they appear. Halfway through our meal, the Bebia (grandma) starts shouting in Georgia and everyone got up to see what the fuss was about. I peered into the kitchen where all the commotion was occurring, only to find a cow standing there, chilling just being a cow. I’m not making this stuff up people. Collette loves cows, she likes to “moo at them and shit. I’m jealous that she got to pet the cows that hung out in the back of our hotel, who I affectionately name Paco and Taco. Georgian cows actually let you touch them, unlike the bovine assholes back home. This kitchen cow was simply shooed off, and we resumed dinner like nothing had happened. After about an hour, my host family arrived, minus Deda (mother) to take me to my new abode. Mama (father) is a large guy, and Nino and Nana are 12 year old twins who are the sweetest little cutesicles ever. They look at me adoringly every day, genuinely happy to have an unrelated older sister living with them, even if it’s only for an unspecified amount of time. They’re absolutely fabulous.

My host family has a Little Miss Sunshine van, and by that I mean a van you have to push to start. Our house is the typical Georgian archetype of a home: we have chickens, cows, goats, and a ton of miscellaneous fruits and vegetables. All meals are 100% homemade from produce and animal products all coming from the farming and livestock tending skills of host mother and father. Whole Foods can suck it: were wayyyyyy more organic here, without the pretentiousness and hefty prices you find at this elite supermarket. On the second day, Georgia laid down my first truly WTF moment---the kind of WTF moment that’s so sad you have to laugh or you’ll go crazy. Our host nephew, Giorgi, who’s only 2, was staying with us. We ventured to the neighbors house to go see their chicks, who were just running around the house. Giorgi got hold of one of them, and squeezed the life of the darling little creature, who let out this horrible squawking noise. The adults began yelling at him and nabbed the poor animal from his death grip. Unfortunately, it was too late for this little guy, and he was placed on the floor, alive and kicking…kind of. Apparently, Giorgi broke his spine or neck (or both), and he couldn’t walk or lift his head up. He just lay there on the floor chirping and moving his body with his head on the floor. If you’d like a visual, YouTube “Timmy’s Thanksgiving turkey” on South Park to get an image of what I’m talking about it. I don’t know why they just didn’t end the chicks misery, maybe they thought it would heal?!

There are so many events that happen every day in Georgia that are strange, shocking, hilarious, and wonderful. You literally never know what’s going to happen. Every day is kind of like a hot mess, and I kind of like it.