07 OCtober

I suppose if I were to have a weekend like these past few days for the next few months, it will tally a sizable number of pretty ridiculous stories to bring back to the States. Friday was an exciting adventure into the bafflings that constitute a Georgian education.  It is the first time I had to walk the mile down the road in the rain, which was made even better by my lack of umbrella. Luckily, I only have one class on Fridays, so I have turned the last day of the week into a self-imposed casual day, and I didn’t’ get a nice dress shirt sopping wet. I walked into the school entrance, only to be stared at by students, teachers, and parents alike as I shook of a layer of rainwater. I had to explain to people three separate times that I was at school because I had a lesson before I finally discovered that, when it rains, most teachers and students don’t bother showing up. It was a strange idiosyncrasy of Americana that my observers added to their already impressive tally when I explained that, in America, school was not cancelled because of a small downpour. On the plus side, I got to play 3 hours of soccer before walking back into the storm for my mile walk home, the day made complete by being splashed by a passing car and having to step over the small pool of blood surrounding a pig that had been necked and gutted and left in the cold rain for rigamortis to take over.

I had an hour at home with the house to myself before Ollie came to pick me up, driven by his co-teacher and her father. That whole dynamic is an interesting story on its own, considering the fact that, last time I checked, Ollie was forbidden by his host family from speaking to his co-teacher, even if they were working on a lesson together. Anyhow, we jumped into the hotbed of Zugdidi, a city about 30 minutes south of my village, and spent hours wandering through the labyrinthine markets – small shacks with precarious stacks of merchandise ripe for unwary customer (read: me) to bump into and smash, the entire metropolis of retail squalor covered by an intricate network of tarp ceilings, which would occasionally burst or be dumped by the shop owners, merely an additional obstacle thrown at buyers and sellers alike. After too many stores looking for the ingredients for Ollie to make carrot cake, we were perched on a corner by the co-teacher, who went off to buy some illicit items that she felt too embarrassed to purchase in front of us. Her parting promise of a snappy return began to rang hollow after the first 45 minutes of waiting, and Ollie and I made the slow realization that a girl is a girl is a girl, and shopping will always take ungodly amounts of time regardless of what country you’re in.

Ollie’s co-teacher eventually returned to check that her charges were adequately watered and the windows were still cracked to stave off dehydration, and we were aptly rewarded for our patience by the only true stop after hours of shopping – the bar. When TLG began 3 years ago, a volunteer came with the first group and never left. After three months he married a Georgian woman and moved out of the states permanently to settle down and open an American bar, which has become a favorite ex-pat stop in by plenty of English speakers. This sounded like too good a prospect to pass up, and we were not disappointed. The beer was cheap and the burgers true ground beef, and I was pleasantly surprised to run into 3 people who were in my training group in Tbilisi, an American named Brent and a married couple from South Africa who were enjoying a few pints before catching the night train off to Tbilisi. I also met a girl who traded elementary education for teaching the police force English (much to my jealousy), and we shared communal stories of experiences in Mexico. Tally of people in Georgia who can speak Spanish: 3. The night came as quickly as the evening passed, and plans were soon hatched to catch rides to Kutaisi for a Saturday of cave exploring and spelunking.

They say fall is the rainy season in Georgia, and the steady stream of water that was Friday was merely a precursor to the gale that slammed the windows and corn fields Friday night into Saturday morning. As my alarm shook me out of my warm bed and into the cold rain at 6:30, it took a few minutes to actually stand against the chilly wind and the puddle that had formed overnight underneath the window. Finally, I stumbled into the bathroom to gauge the actual accumulation of rain (keep in mind, my bathroom is outside; a fact that is becoming more and more fun with the steady decrease of fall temperatures), and was splashed with a gust of wind and rain as I opened the back porch door. I stared in horror at the five lumps of humans occupying the outdoor beds, the covers that were thrown over their heads clearly ill prepared to keep the inhabitants dry and warm throughout the long night. Why these people still don’t sleep inside will be one of the great unfathomable that will trouble my imagination long after my time in Georgia is over. I sighed and paid my bag after splashing warm water through my hair and across my face. It was the first time I would be allowed to jump on a marshutka without my host father hailing the correct one, and I was not anxious for fifteen minutes at the end of the driveway sans umbrella.

The marshutka ride into Kutaisi was a non-event, and before we had time to fully inhale the uncomfortably nostalgic scent of McDonalds ‘french fries’ we were herded onto the next bus (my third of the day) and whisked to the entrance mouth to a mile jaunt throw stalactites, stalagmites, and stalagnites (and you had difficulty keeping track of the first two). The caves were amazing, great flashes of rock contorted over millennia, splashing water frozen in a picture of immoveable rock. I cheered for Aaron Rolston (the hiker depicted by James Franco, of 127 Hours fame), and everyone collectively stared at me wondering what the loud American was talking about. There were endless crevices and twists aching to be properly explored, but the small path with the impenetrable 4 inch rock barrier proved impenetrable, keeping everyone at a safe and lawsuit-free distance. My desire to climb anything and everything grew with each step, only kowtowed by the vivid images of prisoner abuse scandals in Tbilisi prisons (it’s bad enough that the guards sexually abuse prisoners, why did they feel they need to show the full video on the 6 o’clock news?).

After emerging back into the sun, hapless mole people blinking furitively against the sudden sun exposure, we were back on a two-marshutka ride back to the city center (2 marshutkas to Kutaisi, 2 marshutkas to the caves, 2 marshutkas back to the city. AKA, a Saturday in Georgia). As all good TLG-ers do when in a big city, we quickly overloaded the shaurma stand with 5 requests for the largest hand held delicacy they had, and retreated with a beer to what felt like would be one of the last bright sunny days of summer/ fall. Our group broke up after lunch, some people retreating back to another marshutka and village life, and the rest of us wandering without predisposition or intention around the city. After meandering through the park and realizing that all of the sights to be held were beholden over previous trips, the group issued a collective shrug and lemminged into the bar. The suspiciously low price of wine (3 Lari for a liter) proved a wise investment, as the red wine was dry and free of floating debris (unlike village wine) and the white wine was decent, but chilled for the first time since Georgia began, which improved the experience ten-fold. Soon, my favorite part of Georgia became the true entertainment for the evening, and the table of four men behind us invited us to pull our table alongside theirs, where we were treated with a mass of Georgian finger food, more wine, a few beers, and a shot or two of tchacha (tchacha for me at least, as I’m a guy and it’s socially uncouth for women to take shots in public. Although, in reality, I’m sure that their gracing me with a shot was to serve mainly as a distraction while they flirted with the two girls. I know my role in this social configuration). All in all, it was a relaxing hour or two where we were introduced to some of the locals, who proved to be incredibly nice, very welcoming, and truly grateful at America’s continued influence in their country.

It was here that the group took its last fraction, the girls catching a cab to their village and me off to a hostel, as all of the marshutkas had left by this time. I settled in with free wifi, a book, and the starry sky, complacent in the fact that, for the first time in nearly two months, I was alone. It was a startling realization when it first hit me, but I had escaped the typical housing structure that I am used to in America (plenty of visitors, parents, siblings, and other visitors coming and going, always offering someone to talk to), and was travelling without a cohort. It was a nice release to be able to sit and relax, to have no one to answer to, and the night slowly fizzled to a close.

I awoke Sunday morning without aid of an alarm or a day with drawn at plans, still relishing the autonomy of complete control over my schedule. It made for a lethargic start to the day over breakfast (coffee, bread, fruit, and an egg) and conversation with an affable Korean couple who had mistakenly bought tickets to Georgia and were making the best of a surprise vacation (Don’t worry, it confused me, too). When my body felt like it, I slowly packed my few belongings and started off at a slow walk, intent on finding a cup of real coffee and a bank on the 6 mile walk back to McDonald’s and my marshutka home. Trusting the locals over my ability to read Georgian scrawl on the cardboard destination plates in the windshield of marshutkas, I allowed myself to be shepherded onto a bus that set off in what felt like generally the right direction, and let the landscape pass through my inattentive eyes as FUN. blared in my iPod headphones. Slowly, I began to realize that I had been on the bus far too long and had not seen a single thing that resembled familiar territory, and so climbed off the bus to try and find someone who could generally tell me where I was going. I chanced into an English speaking 13 year old girl who was sitting outside of her family’s gas station, who rapidly switched from facial expressions of confusion, bemusement,  and genuine concern as she explained that the city I was looking for was about 45 kilometers in a far off direction (thank god I got off the marshutka), and there were no other marshutkas expected until the following morning. As she explained the situation to her confused Georgian parents, who were quick to begin laughing at me, I sighed and tightened my backpack, reaying myself for the sort of hike that I had certainly not anticipated at 2 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. I got my general bearing from the girl, and set off along the cow-poop strewn, unpaved road. Despite TLG’s advice that hitchhiking is not a good idea, I soon flagged down two 20-something year old boys driving what I assumed to be their father’s BMW, who willingly picked me up as they sped past. They were an ecitable duo, thrilled at the prospect of having an American in their backseat, although their English was tenuous at best. They were slightly disheartened at my taste of music and baffled at my explanation that not everyone in America blasted Lady Gaga’s “Born That Way” on repeat during their road trips, but smiled nonetheless. This ride only got me a few kilometers down the road, but the boys were sympathetic to my plight and handed me a freezing cold beer, which they knew would occupy me for at least the first kilometer on my long hike home.

Reduced again to pedestrian status, I cracked the beer and savored the experience that was European travel for the 22 ounces while I covered the better part of two kilometers. Despite the friendly American flag velcroed to the back of my backpack, my hand in the air failed to hail any cars, and I began to wonder when I should tell my family that it would be a few hours until I made it home. Just as I was going to break down and call my host brother, a farmer came out of an access road amidst his flock of cows, and he was shocked to see an American pedestrian sipping a beer and singing along to his strange English music that was magically blasting from his pocket. After telling him that I was trying to walk back to Senake/ Chkhorotskkus, he smiled at the kilometers I had left on my journey, and said that he would be more than willing to give me a ride. At first I assumed that my Georgian was slipping and I did not properly understand what he was saying (considering the man’s lack of automobiles), until he took my bag and rested it on a cow, hoisting me up to take a semi-comfortable seat on the donkey that was at the head of his flock.

Just in case I did not do an accurate job painting that picture into your mind’s eye, I will recap. Having been ushered onto the wrong marshutka after mistakenly allowing a marshutka driver shepherd me onto his bus, I walked off into the middle of nowhere after being on the bus for too long and still not seeing anything familiar. A 13 year old and her gas station owning parents laughed at the fact that I had landed myself 45 kilometers away from home sans transportation, and offered me a beer for the tiring journey down a dirt road. Two twenty year old driving a way-too-nice- BMW were shocked at my admission that not everyone in America had dyed platinum-blonde hair and friends that they called Alejandro, and dropped me at the corner of the road 2 kilometers from a farmer who stuck my scrawny self on a donkey, and continued to whip said donkey as it sauntered down the road towards, I hoped, my village, fresh beer in hand (farmers come prepared). I hope that this comes to be the defining picture of my time in this strange, strange country.

Despite the fact that the donkey ride was fun, it was a very slow moving 5 kilometers, and I was beginning to feel bad for my donkey. And the farmer was out of beer. And so, with immense gratitude, I jumped off my steed, grabbed my pack, and set off at a slight jog, for no real reason than to mentally make up for some lost time. Soon enough, all problems were solved as I hailed a pickup truck that was moving in my direction, and the last 25 or 30 kilometers passed in a blur of a dust cloud, with my bouncing along in the bed of a truck that would certainly have not passed emissions or inspection back in Connecticut. I made it to the town center, about 5 kilometers from my house, and texted my family to let them know that I was alive, almost home, and stopping for something to eat. The Kinkali (doughy balls filled with seasoned ground beef) were delicious, topped off with a huge bottle of water and a cola, and accompanied by three Georgian men, very inebriated, singing classical Georgian songs and watching a small TV sitting on the corner of the bar (playing, of course, the first Twilight movie). The crowd occasionally peppered me with questions, but the lack of any English speakers and the continued intoning of the three not-quite-tenors kept most social interaction brief. That is, until the three men stopped singing and one left, stealing my phone and dialing his number, so that at some other point he can call me and we can get a beer together. I would have protested more, but the 65 year old was wasted, seemed good natured enough, and he had a total of 4 fingers on his two hands, and it was uncomfortable enough the first time he shook my hand. Finally the crowd of about 20 began to cheer again for the two main to continue their songs, who deflected to me, under the guise of wanting to hear me sing songs in English. At first I balked, sure that this was a terrible idea, but their insistences were echoed by the masses, 25 pairs of ears (including the staff who had stopped working to watch) suddenly desperate for Americana. Finally I shrugged, declined a shot of tchacha from the men for the umpteenth time, and stood to clapping and cheers. Too bad they did not realize I don’t have much in the way of a singing voice. Slightly panicked by what song I was going to sing, I smiled and thought of my brother Bobby and friend Dan Cruz, and broke into the first stanza of Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight.” I am sure no one knew anything that I was saying, but they still seemed quite thrilled to have English hurled at them in a rapid, onomatopoeic fashion, and I quickly realized how much I missed the song. Without really intending to, and certainly not being stopped by anyone else, I had soon performed all 8 minutes, and stood awkwardly as the crowd stared at me, unsure what to make of my song.

Finally I left, ready for the last few miles to my front door, hardly an aerobic even considering the 45 kilometer hike I was faced with just a few hours ago. Luck played into my hand again, and I was graced with another ride, to save my family an additional hour of worrying. This time, a large tractor left the construction site next to the restaurant, and I was allowed to climb into the enormous bucket, which carted me past the homes of my students and fellow teachers, staring at me in sudden recognition and wondering what the hell I was doing. I thanked the construction worker for my ride, and, 7 marshutka rides, one BMW, one donkey, one bed of a pickup truck, and one backhoe later, I was home.