Going to the Country, Blank Slates, and Work

Sunset off of Bishte Pauli (Paul's Tail) on the Adriatik

An elder sister came to visit her younger sister in the country. The elder was married to a tradesman in town, the younger to a peasant in the village. As the sisters sat over their tea talking, the elder began to boast of the advantages of town life: saying how comfortably they lived there, how well they dressed, what fine clothes her children wore what good things they ate and drank, and how she went to the theatre, promenades, and entertainments.

The younger sister was piqued, and in turn disparage the life of a tradesman, and stood up for that of a peasant.

'I would not change my way of life for yours,' said she. We may live roughly, but at least we are free from anxiety. You live in better style than we do but though you often earn more than you need, you are very likely to lose all you have. You know the proverb, "Loss and gain are brothers twain." It often happens that people who are wealthy one day are begging their bread the next. Our way is safer. Though a peasant's life is not a fat one, it is a long one. We shall never grow rich, but we shall always have enough to eat.'

The elder sister said sneeringly:

'Enough? Yes, if you like to share with the pigs and the calves! What do you know of elegance or manners! However much your goodman may slave, you will die as you are living -- on a dung heap -- and your children the same.'

'Well, what of that?' replied the younger. 'Of course our work is rough and coarse. But, on the other hand, it is sure; and we need not bow to any one. But you, in your towns, are surrounded by temptations; to-day all may be right, but to-morrow the Evil One may tempt your husband with cards, wine, or women, and all will go to ruin. Don't such things happen often enough?'

(From Leo Tolstoy's short story, How Much Land Does a Man Need?)

'Surrounded by temptations' isn't exactly how I would describe Tirana, but this excerpt from Tolstoy's famous story/parable about greed still relates to my sabbatical from blogging. When I first got to Bandza, there were very few ways to pass the time. I was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by farming land, pigs, and cattle. I worked approximately three to five hours in a day (and that was at the beginning when I took matters more seriously). The only way I could pass the time was by running, reading, and writing.

And, man, did I write; I was pumping out three posts a week at times. Now I'm sitting down to write for the first time in three months. What the hell happened? I can't say Georgia got less interesting, because that was never the case (and I still have all those list posts that I had promised, I just need to add content). But as I spent more time in Georgia, I started to spend less time in Bandza (and more time in Martvili, Senaki, and Tbilisi). The time I did spend in Bandza was consumed with tutoring my host-brothers, playing volleyball, basketball, or soccer with my students, and drinking a lot of wine (when the weather gets better, we have a ton of impromptu suphras in Bandza).

My summer inactivity has already been explained, but Tirana was a fresh start. I was planning on a GNJB Renaissance! After finishing up my Georgian thoughts, I would get to breaking down Tirana and Albania. It would be the Autumn of Max!

But then I got here and realized that my first three months here would be nothing like Bandza. Tirana was a city, I lived on my own, I didn't have a social support group like TLG (which meant I had to spend twice as much time cultivating relationships and friends), and I had work...

There's a lot I still want to say about TLG, but this post isn't about that. Either way, my teaching job in Bandza was pretty simple and easy. I taught between 2-4 lessons a day, and towards the end of the year, sometimes I would teach one lesson and then go home. I'm still proud of the work I did, and I know that some students really improved their conversational English during my time there, but at times, my job was a bit of a joke.

My job now is far from a joke. I teach 25 hours a week, run social and sports clubs, and spend most of my other time meeting with students outside of class (something I beg them to do). On top of that, I have lesson plans that must be typed out in advance; an extremely meticulous and bureaucratic task. I also have a student outside of school who I teach once a week, while I have Albanian lessons twice a week.

I'm fuckin' busy, man.

But that doesn't mean I don't miss writing, which is why I'm trying to get back into it. Reading through my last few posts, I have found myself writing just for the sake of excuses. The only way I can stop that is by posting consistently. I'm not going to promise anything, mainly because I'm sick of breaking those promises. But I'm going to Kosovo today for the four day weekend (apparently they celebrate Independence Day harder in Prestina than they do in Tirana), but after I get back, I have three weeks until my winter break. In that time, I'm going to write.

But first I must get away from the city...

I Can't Even Blame the Kindle...

Used car shopping in Chicago whilst diving into Lake Michigan

... because I did not read at all while home. And no, it's not because I was watching mindless TV (although my dad did make my sister and I watch the highlights of Mega Shark Versus Crocosaurus). I really haven't gotten around to writing anything since I've been home mainly because I've been traveling like a Depression-era carny.

I went to Washington DC (missed the earthquake, though), Frederick, MD, New York City, Toledo, OH, Detroit, Chicago, and Beaver Creek, CO. And for all but Colorado, I was traveling by car or bus. It was my grand tour, except with less culture and more leisure diving (see above picture).

And after five weeks of vacation, I am exhausted and in need of a vacation from my vacation. I could really go for another week in Pittsburgh of doing nothing but hanging out with the family. But alas, alas, the show must go on. So instead of sitting on my couch at home or weeding the front lawn for my father, I'm at the Dulles Airport in DC (no aftershocks) waiting for my flight to Vienna, after which I hop on my flight to Tirana.

I don't really know what to think of my move. Albania, much like Georgia, is a fairly random country that few westerners know about. They're both countries who are still coming to grips with their post-communist identities, but while Georgia has seemingly made giant strides since the Rose Revolution, Albania is still having political problems. But both countries have incredible histories while offering beautiful natural surroundings.

In fact, Albania was named in Lonely Planet's top ten places to visit in 2011, and this little writeup from the New York Times certainly paints their Ionian Sea coast in an appeasing light. At the same time, I've had one Estonian friend who visited Tirana awhile back call Albania, The asshole of Europe, while I had another Georgian friend come back from working two weeks there to call it like Georgia... but ten years ago (just take a look at this picture of the Tirana Airport... yep, I'll be there in less than 17 hours).

But then again, I'll be in the capital and not the rural backwaters (I loved Bandza, but it wasn't exactly a beehive of activity), while I'll be teaching a subject I much rather prefer (TEFL < English Literature and Grammar).

The question I've gotten a lot over the past week is the same question I got before I went to Italy and Georgia, Are you nervous or excited? My answer has always been really lame, Not really. I've never been one of those people who got overly excited before something happens. Every now and then, something might hit me in the moment (my first night in Bandza comes to mind), but for the most part, I just take things in stride as they come. If I was overly nervous about what might meet me in Tirana, it wouldn't help at all. I'm not turning back now, and I wasn't turning back a week ago (or a month ago for that matter). It's just too interesting of an opportunity to pass up at this point in my life.

So here I am, enjoying my last American meal for awhile (Five Guys burger, with fries and a fountain cherry coke... very American), and I'm even keel. As always, no matter what happens, things could be worse. I could be unemployed... or in Libya.

(PS - Those final Georgian posts are still on their way as soon as I have time in Tirana. But I can't promise an approximate date.)

Been awhile...

A pretty neat looking picture of the steeple of the Martvili Monestary and an early Moon. As my Pops would say, Trippy Man...

So as you’ve noticed, I stopped making excuses for my truant posting a while back. But that’s not going to stop me right now, as it’s been nearly a month between posts and I feel as if I owe you an explanation. There’s several reasons for the lack of posts, which I’ll try to get through as quickly as possible before I can get on to some real observational thoughts.

It’s amazing how quickly things have gone by, considering where I am. The average person would think that being in rural Western Georgia would cause time to move at a painfully slow pace, and although there have been some sluggish periods, I’d say that overall, time has flown by like a BMW-wielding Georgian.

Before I went abroad, my friend who had taught in Korea for a year told me that your feeling towards time shifts like a bell curve. In the beginning, you’re really excited and everything is a wonder. As I was going over some of my earlier posts this past weekend, my friend’s comment certainly proved prescient. Look back on my September posts and you’ll see how I come off as some wide-eyed newcomer who think they have it all down after a few experiences (I cringed at reading over some of my innocent ignorance).

A random castle (you get a lot of those in Georgia) sitting atop the road from Bandza to Senaki.

But then you hit the dog days, and there’s a lull. My trip to Southeast Asia (in the words of Scarlett O’Hara, As God is my witness, I will get to those Vietnam thoughts before I leave this earth. That’s how it went, right?) helped to stave off any feelings of monotony, but as the winter lagged on, there has definitely been some times during which I’ve thought, Good Lord, can this go any faster? The goofy weather (I thought we turned a corner a few weeks ago, but it’s been rainy and cool for the past week [there’s fresh snow fifteen kilometers up the road from me]) and the frequent electricity disruptions (we had another three day wind storm a few weeks back that cut power to my village for five days) haven’t helped.

Number One Threat to Georgia? Bears! This beast was roaming the inside of it's cage in the Tbilisi Zoo (entrance fee of 50 Tetri [30 US cents], making it easily the cheapest Zoo ever).

But even then, I still had things to keep me busy: my Kindle that is jam-packed with classic literature thanks to Project Guttenberg, increased tutoring of the boys, trying to make sure I don’t add winter weight by running on the weekdays (I don’t really look forward to running, while I enjoy it even less in cold weather), big trips on the weekends (went to the Georgia/Croatia Euro’12 Qualifier in Tbilisi that Georgia won on a ’90 goal, immediately after which I was hugging every random Georgian man I could find in my section), looking for a teaching position for the summer (I will be in Turkey) and this upcoming school year (I will not be in Georgia, a topic for another day), and planning more lessons for my classes at the Bandza school (Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, my skiing trip, and the upcoming Easter holiday have given me ample topics).

So now it’s mid-April, I have two months left, and it’s back to the excitement I felt in the beginning. But that excitement isn’t due to my departure, it’s more of an energy producing excitement that reminds me how I must make sure to take advantage of the little time I have left. Although with that excitement comes a sort of wistful feeling, so instead of observing the new, I’m blinded by nostalgia.

A shot of Senaki and the Samegrelo Valley, probably the only completely flat area in Georgia.

So I probably won’t have too many mind-blowing observations during my time left here, although it’s not like I ever did. But I will still do my best to conjure up some magic and be more cognizant of the fact that with each day that passes, I’ll have one less day to expound on this unique and authentic culture.

But there’s been a lot that’s gone over the past two months that I can probably bumble on about. Here’s a few quick thoughts old school style.

Erti – There have been two deaths in relation to my host family in the past six weeks, the first was rather expected, while the other was far more tragic that occurred only ten days after the first. I’ve already talked about the Georgian grieving process, but I never realized the expectations on the immediate family during the forty days that follow a death. TLG should probably mention this during our orientation, because it sure would have helped me, but basically don’t practice the piano, don’t play music at all, don’t expect any meat at the dinner table, and never, ever smile. That last one’s a bit of hyperbole, but I would say the past month has been the only time I’ve felt uncomfortable with my host-family, if only because I was walking on egg shells with zero direction.

This is my little buddy Luka on his 6th birthday, obviously not old enough to cut his own orange, and therefore getting Gogita (his neighbor) to do it for him. Look at the anticipation in that little guy's eyes.

Ori – I finally decided to help out with some farm work. It was the first official day of work a few Saturday’s back. There were some guys I recognized at the breakfast table, and they were passing out shots of tchatcha. Afterwards they went out to work while I went to my room to read and then went on a run (after the tchatcha buzz faded). When I got back from the run, I decided it was time to man up. So I walked over to the vineyard, grabbed a shovel and started churning some farmland. It was a quite a sight for all of the real men there; they stared as if I had just solved the Riemann Hypothesis (if you don't want your head to hurt, do not click on the link). But I don’t think I did much of a good job, since I haven’t been asked back since. Mission accomplished, I guess?

Sami – On Wednesday after dinner, all the men of the household were intently watching the European Figure Skating Championship. I don’t know if it was for the view or the art, but they all seemed mighty impressed with the double and triple axels these young were pulling off (whole lot of De-da’s and Op-pah’s). But the best was when a black skater from France stepped on the ice. Lasha looked at me and instead of dropping the n-word, said, black. These are the type of small success stories I savor.

In honor of the upcoming holiday of Easter, here is a crooked cross (I can't remeber why so many crosses in Georgia look like this, but it's not really crooked as it's supposed to look like that [Cue random Georgian reader to correct my ignorance]).

Sweet... Sweet Shuki

Easily on of my favorite pictures I've taken in Georgia

Recently I started rereading Wendell Steavenson’s Stories I Stole, which is a personal account of the two years Steavenson spent living in Georgia from 1999 to 2001. If you go all the way back to the point where I reignited the blog and switched the focus from Pittsburgh Sports to my travels in Georgia, I mention Steavenson’s book as possible reading material for those unfamiliar with Georgia.

I remember reading Stories I Stole the first time and thinking, what am I getting myself into? I was halfway through the book before I even left the States (the second half of the book drifts away from Georgia and focuses more on her personal struggle and relationship with a German photographer), and though I had read other content telling me the country was in much better shape since the Rose Revolution, I was still a little startled at how bleak a picture Steavenson painted in her stories.

This is from my recent hunting experience in Martvili

Some of the aspects of Georgian culture she reflects on have stood the test of a decade and still hold true today, including this very prescient passage regarding the drinking culture of toasting, tamada, and suphras:

It was a kind of aggression. When they did not know you well, they filled your glass and filled it again and carefully watched how you drank it. This was their measure of you; this was done to disarm you… The quantities, however, were still very large and could provoke either love or violence. This was the Georgian way, friend or enemy with nothing in between. History was lost in tradition, drinking a way of remembering and forgetting at the same time. (pg. 10, Stories I Stole)

That was the good stuff that I was looking forward to. The more alarming characteristic was laid out in the next 18-pages in a chapter entitle Shuki. Now, all Georgians and anybody else who has spent significant time in Georgia understand what shuki means—power (actually, literally, it means light, but that's neither here nor there). And I’m not talking about Saakashvili power, I’m talking about the type of power that keeps the lights on, the hot water flowing, and space heater pumping… electricity.

These are the mountains of Samegrelo, quite stunning on a clear day

In Steavenson’s stories, she describes a sort of third-world Tbilisi in which you might get an hour of shuki in the morning and an hour at night. A Tbilisi where only 20% of the residents would pay their power bills, while a majority of those who didn’t would just bribe an official to reset the meter (including Steavenson herself). A Tbilisi where candles gave you light and tchatcha gave you warmth.

But that was ten years ago (the back of my head says, 2001 was ten years ago? Jeebus, am I getting old), so it didn’t surprise me all that much when I got to Georgia and didn’t experience any of the shuki problems Steavenson so excellently described in her writing. Every couple days the power might go out for a few hours, but it was never for all that long and never caused that big of a problem (the main reason for blackouts was weather [rain, snow, wind], although sometimes there was no rhyme or reason to the sudden darkness). When it did hinder a deadline or a teaching priority, at first it was problematic, but like all other inconveniences in Georgia, you just adapt and get used to it—roll with it as my Dad says.

The landmarks of Tbilisi seen at dusk

Now, I live in a village of Samegrelo, so I’m sure that some people have it better than me especially Tbilisi, but also including even those who live in the towns and cities of West Georgia (except for Guria, nobody cares about Guria). Hell, even Martvili, which is ten kilometers farther away from the main power grid, would have shuki while I was reading by candlelight in Bandza. Nevertheless, I think I have it pretty good; some of my fellow TLGers were and are much worse off (like my friends in Guria, where they might go multiple days without shuki despite immaculate weather).

It’s almost a contest between teachers to see who has it the worst. Well, I have to walk a kilometer to use the communal out-house, or I’ve only eaten bread for the past week, or the always pleasant, You don’t even want to know how long it’s been since I showered. But usually it always comes back to shuki, and when it does, it’s always a score of hours or sometimes days, You had power for three hours yesterday? I would kill for that.

The nicest building in Bandza; our Police Station

Well last week, I think the shuki issue tested almost everyone’s patience. There were unbelievably strong windstorms (at times, I found myself running at a standstill during my Friday jog) throughout West Georgia starting last Wednesday, which continued until Sunday morning. Thus, power was cut in and out throughout the region for the past week (they are still getting things together).

This is probably the worst I have had it since I got here, which really isn’t that bad compared to some (as mentioned, Guria has it rough) and definitely nothing compared to how it was ten years ago; but it does make you realize how lucky you are when you do have power. For me, it really doesn’t matter as long as my Kindle is charged up and I have candles, coffee, and matches. But it is problematic in regards to blogging, email correspondence (a vital cog in my existence), and teaching related tasks (worksheets, lesson planning, and TLG required reports).

So when you haven’t had power for a few days, you get a little antsy: I really want to listen to the new Radiohead album; I would give anything just to check my email; Can I not have to tutor Rezi and Luka under candlelight? So as I sit around and realize I’ve spent the past six hours reading The Odyssey, I might get a little down on myself and the situation. But then! Something flickers, the light on my electronic regulator turns green, and the magic of shuki lifts my spirits like a long awaited text message from a deep crush.

The road from Bandza to Martvili; avoid the cows...

People love to use the phrase you never appreciate what you’ve got until it’s no longer there. Usually this is in reference to a relationship or a recent breakup, but it can easily fit for how we in Georgia think about that sweet, sweet shuki. This afternoon, after I got home from school, there was again no power; so I ate, read a little, and then decided to go on a run, during which I conjured up some thoughts for this very post. But when I got back to the farm, I came to the realization that those thoughts would have to be put on the backburner as my laptop was out of juice and there was most likely ara shuki (no power). But when I opened the door to my room and saw that all-important green light glowing on my e-protector, I almost did a Tiger Woods fist-pump. And now I’m writing this all before the fortune of shuki turns it’s back against me and all is dark again.

There was one line that came from one of Steavenson’s Georgian friends named Kakha that really encapsulated what shuki means to anybody who has lived in Georgia, “In England, you have electricity. But you do not have the happiness that comes when the electricity comes!”

My host-father Lasha loves to curse the President’s name when the power is out. When he sees me, he looks at me incredulously, points at a nearby lighting fixture, and utters, “Oh… ah… Saakashvili… stupid.” (Like all other Georgians, Lasha might not know the English word for smart, but he definitely know the English for sureli [stupid]). I just laugh rather than try to argue with him on how ridiculous it is to blame the President for a power-outage. But my favorite Gabunia shuki tradition comes from Luka. Whenever we are sitting in the small house trying to stay warm while reading under shared candlelight, and the power abruptly comes back on, Luka will clasp his hands together, look to the lights hanging from the ceiling, and say in English, Thank you, Misha! Gets me every time.

I guess on the Gabunia farm, Misha giveth shuki and Misha taketh away.

Beautiful nature and harsh reality, staples of rural Georgia

Return to Bandza, Student Confessions, & Ravenous Wolfs

A statue off the main highway in the middle of Georgia

So it’s been a busy few weeks since I got back to Bandza. I’ve been slowly adapting to the weather (quite different than tropical Southeast Asia; although not nearly as frigid as I expected), the living situation (everyone huddles into the small house [also known as the cooking house] from where the only heat on the property is emanating), and just getting back into the swing of things. I’ve also been spending most of my free time traveling and catching up with friends in other parts of Georgia. And finally, one of my Christmas gifts from my mother was her old Kindle, which (if you can recall) is something I sorely needed and, now that I have one, keeps me more than occupied.

One of the more problematic issues during my short return has been internet access. As the entire family migrated to the small house, so did the computer. Add to that the fact that it’s winter, there’s literally nothing to do around the property, and Lasha discovered the wonders of Tetris; my computer access is few and far between.

But this isn’t an excuse, because, as always, I’m typing these pointless thoughts on my laptop only to transfer them later. I’m only saying that the time between when I finish a post to actual publication may be even more prolonged than is custom (I had the second part of my Thailand thoughts waiting for almost a week). So if you don’t see a post in over a week, no need to worry, I’ve got plenty on the way.

Anyway, it’s been an interesting few weeks of re-acclimation to Georgian village life. When I first stumbled back onto the Gabunia farm, I walked into the small house only to find a basic makeshift infirmary for the family. Lasha and Luka were both infected with some sort of virus that resembled Chickenpox or the Measles, which was apparently sweeping the Martvili district (or so they told me; I have still yet to hear anyone else mention this).

Something I haven’t brought up before is Georgian’s affinity for iodine. Behind Nabeglavi and tchatcha on Georgians’ list of favorite medical remedies is iodine. They put it on anything and everything (see the Chris Rock joke about Robotussin [or as he calls it, ‘Tussin]). When my friend Ali fell in a manhole (so she says, I’m still convinced it was a pothole), she resembled Smurfette for a week since her host-family insisted on dousing her in iodine.

But back to the family mash unit; Babua Rezo was also laid up with some sort of bulging disk coming from his upper groin, which he—much to my delight—showed me. Reziko was still in Tbilisi waiting on Bebia Lela to return from her European travels, so the only healthy family member present was Ira. But more that the haggard physical appearance was the household mood—outward misery. After making my grand reentrance, no one could muster a slight smile or even fake enthusiasm. Not that I need some sort of glorious welcome upon return, but it was as if I were returning from just another day at school, and not a month of travel.

To make things worse, I made a frantic retreat to Bandza so that I’d be there for the first day of classes (before I left, I was told we restarted on Thursday, January 20^th by all of my colleagues), but when I showed up to class the next morning (getting only a few intermittent hours of sleep in my near freezing room, which is unfortunately in the giant unheated house [I immediately went out and bought a space heater, only to find out that I couldn’t use it because it sucked up to much electricity; probably should have asked before I spent the 50 Lari on it. Who needs a space heater? Hardly been used]), there was no one there but the janitor, who told me that class started on Monday.

So it was definitely a bit of a sober homecoming. While sitting in Bandza over the next few days waiting for school to start or my friends to return, I was momentarily second-guessing why I returned in the first place, or at least why I didn’t ask to be moved to Tbilisi (as many of my fellow TLGers mandated in order to return for the second semester). But those thoughts were reactionary, fleeting, and above all foolish.

Now that my friends are back (sans my buddy Ian who is living it up in Krakow, Poland amidst tall blonds who don’t have the hereditary uni-brow curse), school starting up again (a busy man has less time to think about what to bitch about), Reziko and Lela returning (which, in addition to Luka and Lasha’s improved health, has brought more warmth and energy to the farm, if not a bit of chaos [what do you expect when you cram seven people into a 400 square-foot room]), and most importantly, I’ve had numerous encounters and experiences within the few days I’ve been back that has reminded me why I love this place. Here’s a small taste:

Erti – When I asked my students what they did for New Years, a vast majority of them (primarily boys from age twelve to eighteen) told me, “I drink much wine.” This confession basically told me three things: 1.) I’m one hell of a role model; 2). I need to work on the past simple use of irregular verbs; and 3). Georgia rocks.

Ori – But it gets better. In my once weekly English club (optional after school meeting, in which I try to prepare something a bit more interesting than grammar points and vocabulary), I planned a lesson around Auld Lang Syne (less formerly known as the song played right after the clock strikes midnight on New Years Eve), which included them singing the chorus and then creating their own New Years’ Resolution. Some of my more admirable students pleased me by pledging to “become fluent in English.” But I was knocked down a few pegs when one of my year XI students showed me his promise to “stop smoking hemp.” At least his grammar was correct.

Sami – And to top it off, while typing this, my family was watching the news and one of the lead stories was about a wolf in Zastephoni who has ravished a few farms and killed an unprecedented seven sheep. I have a feeling that as we sit, there’s a scene going on right now in Central Georgia that is similar to the men of Amity gearing up for the shark hunt in Jaws. On a related note, there was a two-headed cow born in an adjacent village.

I can’t make this stuff up.

Malaysia Recap

I hurried back to my village in West Georgia only to find out that school does not start until Monday, so I have the next few days all to myself in Bandza. It's cold, half my family is sick, and there is no heat in my bedroom (also on my list of things to do in the next few days, find a space heater). Did I mention it's cold?

In order to combat this oncoming cabin fever, I'll set my mind to spewing out all I can on my winter trip. I never finished my thoughts on Malaysia, so that's first up. Next will be Thailand, followed by Vietnam. Enjoy.

It’s been so long since I was in Malaysia that it’s tough for me to conjure up anything significant or interesting about the country, but there are still a few thoughts hanging around the ole’ noggin’ that I’d like to address. I’ll stand by my initial assessment that it was better than Singapore, although there were still some things that didn't rub with me. Let’s start with the good.

Street sign in Johor Bahru

I found the people of Malaysia to be the most pleasant of all my travels this winter (although the few Turkish people I ran into during my five-hour layover in Istanbul were tremendously friendly). There were definitely plenty of individuals that saw the Western Tourist stamp on my forehead and smelled the money in my pockets (the joke was on them, all the money was in my Mother’s pocket!), but I didn’t see the dishonesty I felt from the Thai people or the hawkers that roamed the backpacker district in Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon), which I’ll get to in another post.

But for the most part, I found the people in Malaysia to be upfront, honest, and friendly, much like the people of Georgia, and these characteristics are what I value most in a people. It’s why I love Georgia but don’t really care as much for Italy.

The point is, I really liked the people of Malaysia, and although it was tough to get used to all the headscarves on a majority of the women (my Mother corrected me in calling them burqas, which cover everything but a woman’s eyes), it would be irrational of me to criticize that.

I had never been in a Muslim country before we crossed into Johor Bahru a few days before Christmas, but here are a few things I noticed.

Kek Lok Si Temple in Penang. That's one big statue.

Erti – Malaysia isn’t a Muslim country in the same sense that, say, Saudi Arabia is, but I didn’t see one headscarf in Istanbul even though Turkey has much larger Muslim majority (I know it may sound like I'm measuring a country's level of Islamic faith by their female fashion trends, but there's more to it). So it’s tough to rate the importance of religion within Malaysian society just based on dress. But the variety of religious buildings made me feel as if Malaysia were an extremely tolerant society. In between all the mosques (some old with character, others new and tacky) everywhere you looked there were churches, cathedrals, Buddhist temples, and Chinese pagodas. While Malaysia has the mosque with the tallest minarets in the world (Blue Mosque outside of Kuala Lumpur), it also has one of the most famous Buddhist temples (Kek Lok Si Temple) which sits on Penang Island.

The Blue Mosque outside of Kuala Lumpur

Ori – The religious tolerance wasn’t only apparent in the architecture, but also in the amount of Christmas decorations that adorned public spaces and restaurants. Although I don’t know how much of that is based on the Christmas spirit or the shopping spirit. This is something I’m sure I’ll bring up again, but shopping seemed to be a pillar of Southeast Asian culture. You couldn’t throw a stone in Malaysia without hitting a mall or market of some sort. Either way, the mass amounts of Christmas trees and cardboard cutout snowmen were pleasantly surprising. It was especially nice for my Mother who has spent the past three Christmas’ in Muslim countries (Turkey, Afghanistan, and Malaysia respectively). So she’s kind of an expert in the field.17th Century Church on a hill in the middle of Malacca

Sami – While roaming around Georgetown (a city with English origins [hence the name] in the Northeast corner of Penang Island), I wandered onto the property of a Mosque that sat in the middle of downtown. This guy who was sitting in the visitors office invited me in to rest my feet and have glass of water. His name was Kang, he was a member of the mosque but directed tours on certain days, and he was a super nice guy. He didn’t even pass judgment when I told him I didn’t practice any particular faith. Basically, he represented everything I love about meeting new people in new places. Totally welcoming and without even getting to know me, considered me a friend (or brother as he liked to use). This shouldn’t mean much, as there are plenty of people just like Kang that I have met everywhere in the world, but I just think if more people met Muslims like him, they wouldn’t have such a jaded view on the religion.

Another Church in the middle of Malacca (I may be spelling the city wrong, but something I've learned while traveling abroad, there are always more than one way to spell something in English).

There were certainly a few things I found off-putting about Malaysian culture. The cities seemed like they didn’t know what century they wanted to belong to. They would have historic structures from English, Dutch, or even Portuguese imperialism neighboring some monstrosity of a 21^st century mall, and then across the street would be some morose 1950’s concrete office building. There just didn’t seem to be a ton of planning put into anything (don’t even get me started on the streets of Malacca).

How can I not include an awesome Shawn Kemp Seattle Super Sonics jersey? Rain Man!

There are probably a few more bones I could pick: the sea pollution on the Southwest coast made it impossible to even stick a foot in the water (mostly due to all the freight traffic that runs through the Straight of Malacca) and the high price of alcohol (although that is to be expected in a Muslim country). But all in all, Langkawi (the farthest island North off the West coast of the peninsula) settled both of those concerns as it was duty free (much cheaper alcohol) and had incredible (and clean) beaches.

The Cameron Highlands (a set of towns that sit on the mountain range that runs down the middle of the peninsula) was one of my favorite parts of the entire trip as well. It lacked the humidity that made Malaysia unbearable at times, while it had much more to do in terms of healthy activities (hiking instead of banana boating, shopping or, drinking on a beach), some stunning views of the high tropical climate and rolling hills, and two vast tea plantations that visitors can tour.

Tea plantation in the Cameron Highlands. That's a lotta Tea.

My ten days in Malaysia definitely provided a fine taste of the country and enticed me to eventually return for a bigger bite (I’d like to check out more of the highlands and also explore the East coast, which is where the better surf is supposed to be, although I don’t surf, so…). I’ll certainly be bringing up Malaysia again as it compares to both Thailand and Vietnam, as there are tons of similarities and slight differences.

I will say that the biggest similarity I found between Georgian and Malay people had to be their disgust for government. I met a ton of Malaysians who only wanted to talk politics, and in doing so, only wanted to complain about their corrupt and dysfunctional government. Definitely reminded me of a few conversations I’ve shared with Georgian men, except the Malaysians speak English.

I didn't much care for Kuala Lumpur, although to be fair, I didn't spend more than 24 hours there, but they did have an awesome National Park smack dab in the middle of downtown. I love a good park.

To make it even more specific, many of the Malaysian men I met (because, to be honest, I just didn’t meet that many women in the country who weren’t English, American, or Scandanavian) would complain about their own government while praising Singapore as the golden standard. I remember when I told Lasha (my host-father who constantly complains about the Georgian government) that I would be meeting my mother in Singapore, he put his thumbs up and said, Singapore… Very good. Great minds think alike, I guess.

Merry Christmas

A blurry photo taken of one of the many decorated Christmas trees that line Orchard Drive in Singapore.

Unfortunately, I am not with my real family in Toledo, OH, watching my seventh showing of A Christmas Story while sucking down a BM (that's a Bloody Marry in Schneider Family vernacular) and waiting for my Aunt to finally get to my Grandfather's house so I can open up all of my gifts, most of which of the gag gift kind (Chuck Berry Records, and past-expiration date Spam).

I am also not with my host-family in Bandza, who, since today is not Christmas in Georgia, are probably not doing much at all. Maybe gearing up for the two weeks of Georgian slothfulness that ensue from New Years Eve until Old New Years. Alas, I will be missing out on it all.

But I am with my Mother in beautiful Malaysia, while last night (technically Christmas night here) I stumbled onto the 2nd Annual Kuala Lumpur Biker Festival in downtown KL (the party was a stone's throw away from the famous KL Towers). Never before have I jammed out to reggae music in a country that looks down upon the use of cannabis (if you want to call life in prison looking down upon) next to women in burqas.

As much as I miss both of my homes (Bandza and the States), that's a story I can tell the Grandkids some day. I hope you're Christmas is treating you just as well.

Happy Holidays,

Max

Phrenburti

Me and my faithful PE teacher Lonia, who has been rocking his Mo for over twenty years. Odds are he is probably sick at volleyball as well.

By now, I’ve played several sports with Georgians while getting a capable grasp of their strengths and weaknesses in athletics. Not surprisingly, just like any other country in the world but America, Georgians are pretty good at football (despite how their national team may perform). But Georgians also really enjoy basketball. I think I’ve touched on this before, but they play basketball exactly like people who have played football their entire lives: frantic, physical, and with little skill at all. This combination makes them extremely tough to play with and against, since they continually foul and will jack up shots from any spot on the court (despite their devotion, few Georgians [a.k.a. Bandzans] know even the most basic basketball strategy).

I’ve yet to play rugby outside of leisurely tossing the ball around with Luka and Rezi, but I would think most Georgian men would excel in this activity based on the full-contact football they play. But I doubt the average Georgian can catch a properly thrown rugby ball based on the hand-eye coordination they display in other sports (many of my passes on the basketball court have caused a black eye or two).

But much to my surprise, Georgians are damn good at phrenburti (volleyball). Of course when I say Georgians, I’m really only talking about the men of Bandza. But if there’s enough skill in a small village of Samegrelo to get a consistently competetive game, then I think it’s safe to assume that the remaining 99.9% of the country’s population share a similar ability; that is unless—unbeknownst to me—I was assigned to the phrenburti pipeline of Georgia. Although Bandza does churn out some tall boys—or as my buddy Ian calls them, freaks.

I’ve never been much of a volleyball player, but like most sports (except for tennis; I suck at tennis), I can hold my own. Yet here, I often find myself acting as the weak link in my side. My neighbors here (when you live in a village, everyone is your mezobeli [neighbor]) are quite good at the sport, and play it with an ability (based on my previously mentioned lack of hand-eye-coordination, it’s quite surprising that that skill is conjured up for this activity) and strategy that they so sorely lack in basketball.

I mean, it’s not the Olympics, but they exercise strict positioning and generally try to use all three volleys to set up an optimal scoring chance. When a side receives a serviceable ball, they’ll aim a volley to the setter (who is always front-center with his back to the net) while yelling sami! [3] as a way to count down the volleys. The setter will then serve a nice ball up to a player ready to spike while calling out their name, Maxi!

Back in the States, when I play volleyball, there’s not nearly this much thought and strategy put into it (example: Georgians will lose their shit if a back-player does not shift forward to cover the player in front of him who’s going up to block a spike; ra ginda bitcho!). For us amateur Americans, usually the aim is to get the ball across the net without an unforced error. The thought process is more along the lines of ‘Let’s not fuck this up’ rather than the Georgian philosophy of ‘Embarrass your opponent by spiking a ball into their face,’ a tactic that I’ve been on the business end of more than a few times.

One person in particular who has tattooed my forehead with freakish consistency is my dance instructor Vephkhvia (probably as payback for my snail like progress in learning the dance he’s been drilling into me for the past month). Despite being decked out in formal dance shoes (shined to a ‘T’) and nice dress pants, the man dominates. It’s really Jekyll and Hyde, as he’s so gentle and elegant when on the dance floor, but when he walks onto the volleyball court, he turns into blood-thirsty maniac.

What is even more interesting than the level at which the men of my village play is how they play it. Smoking breaks are often, but that doesn’t mean you won’t see one of the older guys digging a spike out of the dirt with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Also, a point doesn’t go by without someone yelling at a teammate who messed up (unless it was me, who I think they just feel sorry for). Usually the shouting match doesn’t go past one exchange each, but the dialogue always consists of a forcefully dictated bitcho (boy) and something else that I believe translates into ‘What the fuck?’

And trust me on this one, you do not want to see the arguments that disputable calls can lead to. The questionable ruling usually arises from the ball hitting near the boundary (which is marked by a line made from a pick). I’m surprised I haven’t seen blows exchanged at least once, although today one guy feigned quitting after being forced to succeed his argument. Georgian men: passionate about politics and volleyball calls.

Another aspect, which drives me crazy, is their insistence on trying to use some crazy Ronaldinho move with their feet when trying to get the ball back to the server. More often that not the ball ends up wayward, delaying the game another thirty seconds. I swear that most people could play two games in the time span it takes us to play one game. For a finicky American, it’s beyond frustrating.

But what redeems it has to be how they express their displeasure after making an error (this is before being senselessly berated by a teammate). I’m constantly making mistakes, after which I’ll let out a long but slow bodishi (sorry) to which my teammates gracefully reply araphris (which, when used in this context, translates into something along the lines of ‘no worries’). But when Georgians muck up, they’ll immediately utter a remorseful and drawn-out deda (mother). The part that gets me is the manner in which they say it; like it’s been lodged up in their throat for years and they’re just now able to get it out. De….da.

Endnote: The men of Bandza are also sick at table tennis (ping-pong). So random.

Sunflower Seads, Ballgames, & Cleaning Up

This was a nice shot of a speed sign in Samegrelo that I found highly amusing

Georgians love sunflower seeds. There is not a place in this country—except for the churches—in which Georgians won’t find a way to chew on a couple seeds. You can buy them at any busy street corner in the country, usually from some hunchbacked Bebia (grandma) selling cigarettes, seeds, and possibly condoms. It kind of gives you the feeling that you’re constantly at all a ballgame; you know… if they sold cigarettes and condoms at sporting events.

Another aspect of Georgian culture that makes you feel as if you could be at Fenway or Wrigley: the women selling warm khatchapuri and lobiani from a tray they carry through the bazaars, all the while calling out the names of their product. It gets me every time, sending a slight nostalgic reminder of the ‘Lemonade Here’ guy at PNC Park. But let me tell you something, nothing hits the spot like a warm khabizgina (bread baked with potatoes and cheese) while trying to squeeze your way past haggling Georgians.

I digress; back to sunflower seeds. When outside, people just drop their shells on the ground leaving a nice Hansel and Gretel trail wherever they may be going. But if they are indoors, usually they will collect them in their hands for when they next hit the outdoors. Although that doesn’t mean the marshrutka floors aren’t cluttered with the seeds of former passengers.

The worst are the students at my school, who will sit in class, eat them at a non-stop pace, and drop the remains on the already dirty floor. I’ve tried my best to put a stop to it (especially in Tamari’s own classroom), but it’s kind of hard when the school actually sells them in our own tuck shop (a small room that sells pens, notebooks, lollipops, bread, and of course, packets of seeds).

But the students don’t really care at all about the school because there is no accountability. Every evening, a woman goes through the entire school and sweeps the place clean (side note: can’t they make brooms with longer handles for the women here? There’s a reason any woman over seventy is hunched over walking with a cane, and it’s because their brooms are the size of most people’s dust brooms).

So what’s the problem with dirtying the school if someone else is going to come through it every night to clean? What a wonderful message they’re sending to the youths of Georgia: Drop your garbage wherever. Someone else will clean it up for you. Maybe that’s the reason why the roadsides are cluttered with trash and there isn’t one public garbage can or dumpster within a ten kilometer radius of my village. But really, who doesn’t like the smell of burning garbage that constantly wafts through the air of Samegrelo?

I’d like to talk to my director about organizing a once a week crew made up of students that would help with cleaning. Although I feel like I might get a response along the lines of Why? That’s what we have the cleaning lady for. Another motto for Georgia: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And if it is broke, just put some tape on it.

Editor’s note: In true Georgian fashion, I don’t know what’s wrong with the Blog and why it looks this way, but until I get some overwhelming complaints or the problem doesn’t right itself, then I’m not going to do anything. This place is getting to me.

Lelo Burti

This is a shot of the National Stadium in Tbilisi, where the Georgian Rugby Team makes its home

On Saturday, the US Rugby team played the Georgian team in Tbilisi for a friendly match. Unlike their football team, Georgians love their rugby team because it’s somewhat internationally significant. Their team recently won the European championship and ranks fifteenth in the world, one spot behind the America team, which was much to my surprise since I always thought we were terrible; but really, how many countries even have Rugby teams? But it’s not surprising since rugby blends two things that Georgians love: men and contact.

I would have gone to the match at the national stadium in Tbilisi if I didn’t have a birthday to attend on Saturday night. Based on how many people were in attendance, it wouldn’t have been difficult to get a ticket; the crowd wore a blue and yellow shirt. Apparently the Georgian’s support hasn’t translated into actual bodies in the seats.

Anyways, since I couldn’t be there, I had three of my fellow Americans over to the house to watch it with my family. We bought beer (unfortunately, it was Natakhtari, which just happens to sponsor the Georgian Rugby Team; they don’t really have much selection at the markets in Bandza) and potato chips, as that’s what you need when watching an American sport’s team, while Ira stuffed us with satchmeli (food) and Khutcha (my cousin) constantly filled our glasses with the family wine. It was the best of both worlds.

I’ll be honest, I don’t know much about rugby, but it’s not that hard to understand at a basic level if you already know American football (don’t ask me about strategy though). I just wanted to see someone carted off on a stretcher, which nearly happened early on when an American player illegally clotheslined a Georgian player. Pretty sure Lasha spouted some not so flattering names towards the American culprit. If it were you or me, we would have been decapitated, but since the guy was a rugby player he got up after the initial shock had him down and out for a few moments.

Despite not really knowing what was going on, it was still a ton of fun to watch, with the Americans leading for almost the entire match. But Georgia was driving while down 17-12 in extra-time and had the ball near the end zone; the room was at a standstill in anticipation. I could taste the victory when suddenly the power cut out. Immediately, Lasha looked at me and exclaimed “Saakashvili!” It was a classic response.

Eventually Rezi got on the phone with his friend and found out that Georgia had scored, kicked the extra point, and won 19-17 (not quite what Luka predicted: a 24-12 Georgian victory). We didn’t believe him until the power came back on and the game was the top story on the news. As Ian exclaimed, the whole thing seemed staged, let’s cut the power, kill all the Americans, and act as if we won! But much to our chagrin, it was all too real.

I was kind of happy Georgia won anyways, as I really don’t have all that much invested into the American Rugby Team, and I had a feeling a Sakartvelo victory would mean much more to them than an American victory would for us. But my diplomatic stance didn’t stop Luka and Rezi from giving me constant business. Pretty soon we’re going to have a lesson on winning with humility.

Thankful

In true Thanksgiving fashion, here is a picture of Lasha doing something old fashioned and manly: choppin' wood.

This horribly busy month of Movember is almost over (oh yeah, remember to MOnate while you still can!), so I should get back to more regular posting when the relaxing month of December roles around. Although I head off to Southeast Asia for four weeks on the 20^th, so I don’t know what I’ll be doing here during that excursion. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. In the meantime, as promised, here’s a list of things I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving. Yeah, I know Thanksgiving is over, but deal with it.

Teachers – Mostly I’m thankful for teachers everywhere, as now that I’m finally a card-carrying member (at least to some degree), I understand how much of a thankless and rough occupation it is. Particularly, I’m thankful for my fellow teachers at the Bandza School, who don’t resent me despite the fact that I make more money while doing far less with little experience to back it up. I’m especially thankful for my wonderfully understanding co-teacher Tamari, my fearsome dance instructor Vephkhvia, and the ever-watchful Soso (who told me last week that Coca Cola causes cancer; I didn’t know how to respond in Georgian with What doesn’t cause cancer?)

Hospitality – The word that defines Georgia. I’m thankful for my host family in particular (which I’ll get to later), but also to all the other families who have provided a roof over my head and enough food to supply a small army. Particularly Ian’s host family in Martvili who has never hesitated to force khatchapuri down my gullet and wine down my throat. Dato and Lali are like my second host-family here and I’m thankful for that trait of hospitality they share with the rest of this country. Just last night I was given another taste of Georgian hospitality. I was in Martvili trying to watch the Real Madrid vs. Barcelona match that started at midnight, but when Dato’s satellite dish couldn’t get the channel that the game was on, he drove us over to his friend’s house to watch the game at 1 a.m. Then when we left after watching Barca put on an absolute clinic, the host gave Ian and I each a bottle of wine. Only in Georgia can you invite yourself over to someone’s house in the middle of the night and leave with a gift.

Autumn – I don’t know if this has to do with global warming (also known as man-bear-pig), but the weather in the past two months has been incredible. I’ve always loved Fall, which specifically comes from growing up in Pittsburgh, where the only season you can really appreciate is Fall (Spring feels like it’s only two weeks long, Winter sucks, and Summer is just three months of miserable humidity). But the weather in Samegrelo for the past three months has only reinforced my belief that Fall is where it’s at; with the brisk but light air, changing of the leaves, and clear skies that have reminded me just how wonderful Autumn is.

BaNdza – Say what you want about Bandza (and not many people say much because it’s pretty non-descript besides the name), but it’s my home and I love it. The village has accepted me into their community without hesitation and as long as I’m here, I never have anything to worry about. I can’t walk to town without being bombarded with gomarjoba’s and rogora khart’s.

SaaKashvili – Despite humoring Lasha by responding with boghzi when he yells out Misha’s name, I’ll repeat in saying that I don’t know all that much about the man or his politics. All I do know is that I wouldn’t be here without him. There’s a reason all TLGers are referred to as ‘Misha’s Teachers’ throughout Georgia. So despite Lasha’s attempted brainwashing, I’m still thankful for Saakashvili.

Students – Some more than others of course. But in all seriousness, they’re all good kids. I’m especially thankful that they are patient with me being impatient with them. I’m also thankful that at such a young age, they already understand that things will get better with time.

Georgia – This is a given, but just to reiterate, I’m thankful for everything this small but incredible country has afforded me so far. But I have a feeling it’s just the tip of the iceberg I’m talking about. Here’s to hoping my last six months will be just as memorable as my first four. I’m also thankful for Sakartvelo giving me something interesting to write about.

Ira – Special thanks to my host-mother Ira, who, as previously mentioned, does everything for me. Without her I’d be lost, sustaining on a diet of chips and coca-cola, constantly wearing dirty clothes, and probably sprawled out dead at the bottom of an empty pool somewhere. She is incredible.

Volunteers – Yeah, I know I said I wouldn’t use this as a term for my fellow TLG teachers, but it fits too well in this spot not to be used. I never thought I would make this many good friends so quickly. There’s a reason I never get homesick, and that’s because I’ve got friends in Georgia that make it tough for me to ever feel complacent. Thank you all for your constant help and support; I’ll be missing a ton of you who are leaving in December, although I feel as if that won’t diminish the friendships we’ve built since we were packed into that dorm in the ghetto of Kutaisi. We’re a motley crew, but I wouldn’t trade you for anything.

XI Class – By far my most enjoyable class (it’s actually a shame I only get them twice a week). Even if I am convinced that two of my students show up high to class (the only two kids in school with long hair), they still enthusiastically participate. I’m especially thankful that all of the girls do their homework, which also gives me a chance to heap guilt and embarrassment on all the boys. Mostly I’m thankful to know that whenever I teach this class, I’ll never have to raise my voice.

Nino’s – I’m thankful for our program group-coordinator Nino who did everything in her power to prepare us and put us in a position to succeed; she still remains a good friend (despite her incorrectly comparing Bandza to some heaven on earth Utopia and leading me to some initial disappointment). Also for my music instructor Nino and her putting up with me and my once a week attempt to learn a musical instrument (plus taking time out of her own schedule to fix my family’s piano at the house—a painfully tedious undertaking); she doesn’t even get mad when I laugh after she says now you must do it with no mistakes. And finally for all the Nino’s at my school, who unlike all the boys named Torniqe, are the picture of perfection and good behavior.

Gabunia’s – I can’t beat this drum consistently or hard enough, but I am so thankful for my host family and everything they do for me. They’ve given me so much while I feel as if I’ve given so little. There’s no request they’ll turn down and no extra mile they won’t go to make me feel as comfortable as possible. One hell of a family. I really can’t do it justice in words.

Manqana

The Family Car. Don't fuck with the family car.

I came home from school this afternoon to Lasha cleaning out his Mercedes Benz and thoroughly scrubbing the windows all the while mumbling Georgian, Russian, and English obscenities about Saakashvili. If there’s anything wrong in Lasha’s life, he blames Saakashvili. But now that there are two new ‘outrageous’ auto-laws coming into effect soon, Lasha’s anti-Misha rhetoric has increased to a relative volatile state.

I don’t even know if they were Misha’s prerogative, but all Georgian cars must have working seat belts that have to be used at all times and can also no longer have windows tinted past a certain degree. I personally applaud these ideas because I think seat belts are a necessity that everyone should use while tinted windows are terribly tacky and can’t be used for anything productive. Unfortunately, a majority of Georgian men—inlcuding Lasha—don’t agree with me or these new laws.

This is the gas station in Bandza, where they fill your tank with a funnel and measure how much gas you got with a scale. Not an exact science.

Nobody wears seat belts in this country, and the rare cars that have belt straps usually don’t even have anything on the other side of the seat to click them into. Also, I would say a majority of Georgian men have or want a BMW or Mercedes with tinted windows (disturbing side fact I’ve heard: German cars are responsible for over 90% of accidents in Georgia; although that again could just be one of those ‘Georgian facts’). I don’t know why tinted windows are so popular in Georgia (maybe some sort of hold over from the KGB days), but as I previously said, they’re not good for anything. Only sketchy things happen behind tinted windows, namely drug deals and prostitute solicitation.

This is the preferred mode of transport for most older Georgians, including this guy who had just takin' down six shots of tchatcha

I hope that wasn’t Lasha’s motivation behind having them in the first place, and I really don’t think it was. Odds are the reason was what drives a majority of Georgian men’s auto choices; it looks cool. The funniest part behind the whole thing is the reason Georgia is banning tinted windows has nothing to do with real crime, but so they can see who does and does not have their seat belt on. Given how dangerous it is to drive in this country (which I will get to later), the government is actually only trying to make the people of Georgia safer. What a crazy notion!

This is how the children of Georgia learn to drive before they are thrust into their parents' laps and told 'steer'

But Lasha doesn’t care about that. He’s only worried about people seeing him pick his nose from the streets of Bandza. I love Lasha, but he’s extremely shortsighted at times. Still, Lasha is vitally important to this post since when I get to talking about Georgian men and their cars, Lasha is my main inspiration to draw upon. And since Lasha represents the quintessential Georgian man, I have no problem with generalizing all Georgian men by what I see regarding Lasha and his car.

First of all, it wouldn’t surprise me that when Lasha does pass away—which hopefully won’t be for a long, long time—near his burial plot there will be a mural of him and his Mercedes Benz. Now that might sound ridiculous, but if you pass any graveyard in Georgia, you will see a mural of a man with his car. It’s usually shoddily painted, behind a glass case, with the deceased in the forefront, and his beloved car in the background. It’s absurd.

Saw this in Zugdidi; some guy strapping a giant wine barrell on the top of his Lada. Seems safe enough, right?

I mean, I’m sure there’s some redneck in Arkansas who has his Hemi carved into his gravestone, but the sight is so common here in Georgia, that it can’t compare to anything I’ve ever seen before. What’s so surprising is how important family, religion, and death are in this society, but when it comes to a man’s everlasting epitaph, the car gets dibs. I could really stop right there and not have to say much more in order to convince you that Georgian men are fanatical about their cars, but there’s much more to get to.

You can't see it, but there's a car behind that painting. Classic.

One of the most disturbing aspects of this obsession is the length Georgian men go to for upkeep. I would say behind casinos and betting shops, the third most popular business might be car washes. They’re everywhere, and for good reason, as they’re always busy. But Lasha doesn’t take his Benz to a fancy car washin’ place, he just does it himself, which I have a feeling is an act that takes on some sort of religious importance for him, like a Muslim’s pilgrimage to Mecca.

I’ve also never been in a Georgian’s car that is dirty or has trash littering the back seats. You could eat a meal off their upholstery it’s so clean. This, if you even know just my family, is almost never the case in America. Yeah, we take care of the newer cars, but Georgians will detail the inside of their ’76 Ladas. By the way, Ladas are old Soviet cars and they are all over Georgia, since that was the only car people drove before the fall of the Berlin Wall. My friend Raughley put it best: it’s like the bastard child between an old Volvo and an even older Yugo. 

This is a Lada, in excellent condition I may say. 

Before we move away from the outside of the car and onto the inside, one thing that Georgians never care to fix or make look right are their windshields, which are almost always cracked. This might seem odd, but based on the gravel and busted up roads that litter this country, it would only be a matter of time before there was a newer crack. This is the only instance in which I find Georgian men’s judgment to be sound regarding their cars.

This was a Ford truck that we got a ride in one day while hiking. One of the only Fords we've seen, and amazingly, it was owned by the Monastery in Balda (those are priests driving in the front).  

There are a ton of mechanic shops in Georgia, and when I say shop, I don’t mean a Jiffy Lube like we have back home. Usually it’s just some guy who has turned his front lawn into a makeshift garage. I would guess the demand comes from all the cars being used, having a ton of miles on them, and the terrible roads that do a number on axles, wheels, and alignments. Just like in American, there’s never a shortage of Georgian men hanging around the action giving advice or trying to help, except in Georgia, unlike in America, every man knows what he’s doing underneath a car. But to be honest, I feel like the only reason Georgian men know how to fix cars so well is because they are constantly driving them to shit.

This is the driving school we came across in Tbilisi, looks pretty legit, doesn't it?

There are the random accelerations, the jerking of the wheel when passing another car or cow on the road (note: there is no such thing as a safe distance from any sort of traffic; it’s almost as if they try and drive as close as possible just to show off their Schumacher skills), the absolute insistency on never putting the car in neutral, and then the oddest move of all when they randomly turn off their car and let it cruise down an incline.

There are certain other weird characteristics that may have to do with some unwritten driving code to which I’m not privy, like the number of honks when passing someone or trying to cut in (I’ve always thought that honking should be used strictly for emergencies and to grab someone’s attention when trying to give someone the bird) , and then the constant flickering of lights at night from high beams to low-beams to no lights at all (many Georgians will cruise at night without lights in order to save battery power; an extremely dangerous practice and also why I don’t run or ride my bike at night). There’s no other way to put it; Georgian men are terrible drivers.

This is the only nice road in Georgia, which runs along the river in Tbilisi for maybe five kilometers before turning back into a road out of Mad Max

It’s no wonder that my most pleasant driving experiences have come with Ian’s host-Mom Lali. Not many women drive in Georgia, especially outside of the bigger cities. But the women I see driving or even have had the pleasure to share a ride with have been exquisite drivers, although that may have to do with them being overly careful, because if anything were to happen to that car… I’d rather not talk about it.

There’s plenty more I could go on with, including how Georgian men always keep an extra liter of gas contained in an old plastic beer bottle somewhere in their car. Or I could try and guess why Georgians park where the park, which is pretty much wherever they want (I tried to explain parallel parking to one of my classes and they were completely lost). Or what about when they drive with their kids in their laps Brittany Spears style (I’m not making that up).

Go ahead and sleep wherever...

But I’d like to end with my most understanding Georgian driving theory. I won’t hide that I think Georgians are terrible drivers (and I’m pretty sure if I looked up some statistics, I’d have some backing on that front, but this is a blog, not some fancy quarterly). It amazes me how they drive with such utter disregard for their fellow drivers. In America, we call these people Assholes. In the South, people have an obnoxious tendency to cruise the speed limit in the passing lane, while in Massachusetts they’ve melded the term into simply Masshole. Even Pittsburgh has it’s own unwritten rule called the ‘Pittsburgh-Left’ that seems outrageously unsafe to outsiders. 

Here in Georgia, I have no reservations in saying that everyone drives like an Asshole. But the difference is that back home, people get angry at these types of drivers (which is why we’re the nation that coined the phrase ‘road-rage’), but here in Georgia, no one gets all that mad. I’ve yet to see any roadside conflicts or yelling out the window; even Lasha doesn’t get upset if someone cuts him off (a common move here). I think it’s because when everyone drives like an Asshole, there’s really nothing else to expect. It’s just one giant system of relative assholeness. And I think Georgians are comfortable with that, so who am I to say differently.

This is a shot of the road right outside of my house, littered with cows