During training, many people offered what seemed like sage
advice when it came to the ever flowing alcohol – “Don’t shit where you sleep.”
Past volunteers and training staff alike urged us to be on our best behavior as
educators, representatives of the Georgian government, and foreign diplomats,
and cautioned us that if we wanted to get drunk, do it in another village where
our students’ parents won’t watch us make asses out of ourselves. Georgians are
nothing if not pragmatic. It was under this influence that I ventured out to
Batumi, ready to be a typical American tourist, not some stranger to which
mothers were entrusting their kids.
It felt as though the trip was destined to fail before it
even started, Ollie texting from the marshutka 5 kilometers away informing me
the last seat had been filled. Luckily, Georgians had never been fettered with
nonsensical regulations like ‘number of seats in a vehicle,’ and there was
plenty of room for me to stand as long as I was OK smashing into an 85 year old
hazelnut farmer on every 60 m.p.h. curve. It was hard to argue with the
efficiency of the taxi-like bus, and soon we found ourselves 40 miles away at a
station in Senake, ready to catch the connector to our end goal. Round two went
just as smoothly, with the possible exception of the 24 inches of leg room that
Ollie and I were allotted, although I at least had room for the bounce that
came with the back seat, unlike Ollie and his overhead storage.
We have arrived at the beach, albeit a beach like none I’ve
ever seen. Regardless of the presence of a large body of water, I refuse to
acknowledge a beach that does not have sand. The rocks that lead into the water
make for a ridiculously uncomfortable walk, and I have never been less tempted
to lay out and tan (burn). But, regardless of the quality of sand castles to be
made, we were in beach weather, which meant beach bars. Clearly Ollie and I
brought our highly refined taste, as we were able to find the only place I
could ever find a 7 Lari Corona. Luckily Max and James, 2 other volunteers, had
learn their way around the city, and we soon traded for a 1.5 Lari beer with a
view of the bustling city. Unfortunately, it was there that the four of us
parted ways, as Max and James were off to scale the mountains of Sveneti, which
my flip flops were ill-prepared to handle. Instead Ollie and I stuck to the
safety of the boardwalk, marveling at the expanse of building proects proposed
to take the city out of post-soviet squalor into upper class splendor. Where
everyone who was living in the Tiawana-esque section of this city would live
when their rents quadrupled or more, no one had seemed to ask. The proposed
transition from ghetto to post-modern chique left both of us hungry, and
Georgian pizza was calling our name.
Georgians put mayonnaise on their pizza. Savages.
Batumi was to be my first hostel experience, an opportunity
that I was overly excited for. I had been spoiled so far with my living
experiences (western toilets, constant electricity, clean and unlimited water,
etc), and it was going to be exciting to rough it for a few days. It was even
better as there were no scantily clad females lying all over the door, ready to
feed us beverages and satisfy our more carnal pleasures before selling us to
sadistic American businessmen with a penchant for cutting up American tourists,
so my worries about being in an awful early-2000’s horror film were nullified.
Instead, I was instantly surrounded with people from all around the world
venturing to many other corners of the world, and the stories and the
experiences flowed like tchacha in a rural Georgian village. Before anyone
realized what had happened to the sun, early morning snuck up from behind the
clouds and it was time to say goodbye to day 1.
Day two was a blur of travelling, a group of 5 following
Ollie through the streets of Batumi in search of the Stalin museum, with about
as much success and urgency as the Jews following Moses through the dessert in
search of the Promised Land. After forty days and forty nights and guiding
advice from the voice of God (well, 2 hours and navigational sympathy from a
Georgian fruit stand owner), we found the Stalin museum, locked up and
inaccessible as it had been for God knows how long, the trash piled across the
pathway not enough to blemish or dull the resolute mustache adorning Stalin’s
upper lip, which was perfectly visible all the way from the sidewalk. And
people wonder why the Jewish people are stereotyped as complainers.
It had been a few weeks since I had been able to feel
domestic between the hotel restaurant and the overly hospitable way of the
Georgian housewife, and Kelsey leaped at the chance to cook dinner with me.
Even though the grocery store didn’t carry any chicken (why would they, when
you can just hack at the neck of passing roosters on the road), dinner was a
simple pasta dish with sautéed tomatoes, onions, garlic, basil, and olive oil,
and it was perfectly buoyed by Georgian bread, Georgian wine, and a group of
people from America, England, Turkey, and Australia sitting around entertaining
each other. Unfortunately for most of the onlookers, conversation centered
mainly on terrible puns and degenerative humor, but the opportunities to talk
about travels in common brought everyone a little closer to home, especially
the verbal tour through east coast microbreweries.
Dinner came to a slow close as everyone procrastinated going
to the city ferris wheel, alcohol lubricating conversation and not urging
anyone to begin dishes. Finally everyone got moving, and the trip to the top of
the wheel was over as soon as it begin, with a general underwhelming sense.
Luckily night swimming ensued, which slowly devolved to throwing rocks at each
other and sharing a few bottles of beer on the rocks. I mean beach. As
Wednesday night began to approach Thursday morning, everyone was convinced to
go to the local dance club to keep the energy up, fooled by the false
advertising of thumping bass and strobe lights and walking in on 6 Lari beer
and an empty dance floor. Despite the setback, the dance floor was inundated
with more uncoordinated white kids than anyone had bargained for, complete with
wildly successful brek dancing by yours truly (apparently the night was the
perfect blend of alcohol and strobe light to make tripping over myself in a
circular pattern look like a B-boy back up dancer).
The night was to be finished with a few people sitting
around the backgammon table and a last before before calling it a night, but
plans were suddenly and aggressively derailed by other guests at the hostel who
were not interested in having as much fun our group. Complaints about calling
the manager quieted us down a few notches, the sudden realization that it was 4
am and the sun was due back around in a few short hours sheepishly reminding us
of our communal living. The damage was already done, however, and a
particularly agitated French female came around for a second assault, sitting
down and referring to us as American pigs who fulfilled the stereotypes of not
caring about anyone else. Ironically, I was seated next to a Brit, Turk, 2
Germans, a Turk, a South African, an Aussie and a Kiwi, and I was the quietest
of all. Diplomatic hands were extended, and soon the woman was embarrassed by
her harsh comments and overreaction, beers were poured, and proper
introductions were issued (I made sure to go last and announce myself as the
only proper Capitalistic pig).
Batumi is now over and the walk back to my house finished. It
is weird to spend a quick two days and fully acclimate back to city life, the
sudden stillness and lock of honking, blaring music, and beggar children a
comforting dip back into culture shock. The entire village stopped me on my way
home, 100 people somehow fully aware of my trip to Batumi without even a
Facebook post. Mark Zuckerberg has got nothing on village living.
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