Quick Update

So I have a post all ready to go about Batumi and Svaneti, but something is up with my home-computer and blogger, so I can't really post it until I get that figured out because the pictures aren't coming out right. Please restrain your hysteria. 

Thanks,

Max

Batumi, Svaneti, & Deserved Sickness

My host-Babua Rezo and myself; I'm basically a spitting image

In between teaching, travel (which I’ll get to), getting sick again (which I’ll also get to), and managing various other social activities (winter travel plans, my annual Thanksgiving football game, and the occasional acid trip [I’m kidding of course, but name that movie!]), I’ve been busy as all hell. I don’t want this to become a place where I only post once a week, and I know things will slow down eventually, so please excuse my procrastination for the time being. This post will be mostly about my recent travels, but hopefully I can soon get back to my inane anecdotal humor. Enjoy.

Ati – I’ve been traveling these last two weekends, and after I went to Batumi two weekends ago, I told someone it’s the most beautiful place I’ve been to since I got here. Well, this past weekend I traveled to Svaneti, which is, amazingly, even more beautiful. Both are polar opposites when it comes to climate, but really they’re only a few hundred kilometers apart. Which would take less than an hour by plane, but probably nearly nine hours by car since the road into Svaneti and it’s capital of Mestia is about as safe as a Bangkock hooker (too much?).

So this is where I stayed in Batumi, appropriately named, Hotel Old Ship

Otsi – But let me start with Batumi. When I was first looking into coming to Georgia, the company that was placing me told me I’d be in Batumi, which is a coast town in the southwest region of Adjara. But low and behold, it didn’t end up that way, much like many of the things that company (which shall not be named) told me. When, on our second day in Georgia, TLG told us they’d be driving us all the way cross-country from Tbilisi to Batumi in order for the President to speak to us, I was excited to check out this region since it’s subtropical, on the beach, and is supposed to be the most beautiful area of the Black Sea Coast. But they whisked us in and out of Batumi without even having a chance to whiff the local culture.

My new Georgian buddy Vano looking quite spiffy in my sunnies; although when he found out I bought them in Tbilisi, he was disgusted.

Otsdaati – There’s been times when I’ve been reminded of the Pacific Northwest while in Georgia. I think it’s the diversity of the plant life, the sight of mountains from anywhere, and the long stretches of continual rain. Well, Batumi defines that. Right from the water’s edge, the terrain starts working it’s way up and a few kilometers later you’re in the low foothills of the South Georgian Mountains. In Batumi, it’s also either raining and overcast or it’s clear, zero humidity, and gorgeous. Add to that the Evergreen trees that scatter the hillside as far as the eye can see, and it was perfect concoction of nostalgia for my summers in Indianola, Washington.

View from my room on Hotel Old Ship, beach and the Black Sea in the background. I, obviously, am not impressed

Ormotsi – And we got to stay on a pirate ship… Well, not really, but kind of. It was a few friends and myself who headed down to Batumi just for the day and a night, and when we got there, we didn’t have a place to stay (most volunteers have completely adopted the Georgian sentiment towards planning, which is fuck it). But we decided to check out the beach and try to get a swim in before it started raining (like most days in Batumi, it was overcast). On our way we walked past a dock where Lucas (a Brit from Newcastle who loves to complain about everything, whether it’s the food, his host family, or the students; but it’s not annoying complaining—more of a novelty than anything) spotted an old three-mast wooden ship that had a sign on the back that read Hotel Old Ship. So we checked it out and of course, it was a hotel and bar (or disco that was in the deepest part of the ship; we went down there in the middle of the day and I’m pretty sure there was a gigantic transvestite at the bar and a game of Russian roulette going on in the corner—totally sketchy). Basically that night ended with nine of us packed into three rooms on an old wooden ship (not named Diversity). But it started with drinking ludi, vodka, and shavi gkhvino on the poop deck with a newly acquainted kick-boxing Georgian named Vano (who knew next to no English, but got my mobile number and continues to text me How are you?, kind of weird). What happened in between was kind of a blur, but I know there was much rejoicing.

View of the Batumi harbor the next morning; add a dock and turn that container ship into a ferry and you get the Puget Sound

Ormotsdaati – So Batumi was kind of cool. Not many times have I been able to say I’ve slept on a pirate ship (odds are it was a pirate ship at one point, so don’t argue otherwise). But even despite that, I can’t wait to go back and spend more than a 24-hour stint, because it really is quite beautiful. But it doesn’t beat Mestia, Svaneti. Svaneti is the mountainous region north of Samegrelo (my region) in which only one road runs through. But that road is closed from late November to early May because the weather gets so bad and the roads are terrible to begin with. President Saakashvili is trying to get the roads paved to the point where it can be a year-round ski resort (there aren’t any ski slopes yet, but on a few of our hikes we could see where they were already clearing out trees for runs), but even if they were paved (and there are sections of the road that are already finished) it’s tough to see how they could keep them cleared with all the snow they get in the region. But that’s not really up to me.

The reservoir right at the beginning of the Sveneti region; it's amazing how clear that water looks compared to where it comes from. Giant damn dam seen to the left.

Samotsdi – I won’t go into too much detail, but nothing I say can really do the views or area justice. The ride from Zugdid to Mestia (only about 120 km) can take anywhere from five to seven hours and is not for the feint of heart. It was again myself and some of the other volunteers and thanks to some well-thought out planning by a few Zugdidi ladies, we had our own private marshrutka (although I’m using that term rather loosely, since we picked up hitch-hikers from time to time) and were staying at a nice guest house for the duration of our stay (so maybe I should say that just some of the volunteers can’t be bothered with planning). Our marshrutka driver, Zuravi, made it a point to tell us where anybody had died while driving on the road, which was pleasant. The drive up only allows for glimpses of beauty, especially if the weather isn’t cooperating, but it basically follows along the Enguri River, which cuts right through the middle of Svaneti.

A sketchy pedestrian bridge that crosses the Enguri River

Samotsdaati – The people of Svaneti are called Svani’s (which is pronounced like Swani since the v’s in Georgian are pronounced like w’s, much like Latin) and are sort of like the red-headed step-children of Georgia. It reminds me of the way Western Pennsylvanians view the people of West Virginia. They’re backwoods, simple, cut-off, and most likely inbred. But we all know that besides Morgantown, that’s not completely true. Well, most Georgians make fun of the people of Svaneti in the same way. And it would make sense since it’s the most secluded part of this developing country. But no encounters we had in our three days backed that up. They were just as hospitable, peculiar, overly-engaging, and bizarre as all the other Georgians we’ve encountered (which is a good thing).

The view out our window in our room. Enguri River and the valley in the background.

Otkhmotsi – And some of that might have to do with how far the region has come in the past ten years. They have a fantastic tourism center and website (partially supported by U.S. Aid… you’re welcome) that will set you up with both a guesthouse (basically the same thing as a hostel; ours cost about $12 a night and was as nice as a majority of the hostels I’ve stayed at in Europe) and the ability to hire guides for hikes. There are tons of different hiking routes in all directions, and some are so well-marked that a guide isn’t necessary (like our hike on the first day which led us to the Chaladi Glacier). On the second day we did hire a guide (even though in hindsight it probably wasn’t really necessary) named Murabi who spoke and understood English quite well (something we didn’t really take into account when we were discussing the ways in which to contract gonorrhea while resting at the top of the hike—whoopsi), which he picked up from being a tour guide for the past seven years. Amazingly, most of the English-speaking tourists who come to Svaneti are Israelis (including a few we met while hiking).

Purty; leading up to the mountain you can see the Chaladi Glacier

Otkhmotsdaati – I don’t have the ability to describe how beautiful Svaneti was and is, but it got me thinking about where it ranks on my list of most beautiful places, and I would say most of them have to do with heights and views. Seeing Machu Picchu was pretty breathtaking, while the view of Firenze from the Basillica di San Miniato al Monte is something else. The view from atop Kehlsteinhaus (The Eagles Nest) in Germany has to be up there, although the fact that they turned a historical monument made with Jewish blood into a touristy restaurant docks it a few points. On a clear day, the view from Mount Bachelor can give you a glimpse of half of Central Oregon, including the Sisters, Broken Top, and Mt. Hood. But I would still say that taking the tram to the lookout point from Mont Blanc is still the most stunning thing I’ve ever witnessed. On a clear day you just see peak after peak in three different countries. All of this is to say that Svaneti is special enough to rank up there with the rest of them… and I’m one lucky son of a bitch.

Sunset peaking out before it falls behind the hills

Asi – But luck, like a see-saw, has to even out at some point. Which is why I returned to Bandza and was sick within the day. It’s the second time I’ve been sick (and I’m not talking tummy/headache under the weather sick; I’m talking nauseous, groaning in my bed, can’t make it to the door sick) since I’ve been here, which is a huge outlier to my previous performance of sickness. Maybe I’m just hitting my peak sick years, and I’ll slowly return to form. But before I was bed-stricken, when I got back to the house, I was welcomed with a gift from Lasha’s sister in Belgium (Lasha’s sister married a super nice guy from Brussels named Laurent and I help their daughter with her English assignments from time to time). It was a really neat polo shirt and a nice pen (somehow, all the Gabunia’s know the way to my heart). I just kept on thinking, I come back from the most beautiful place in Georgia with nothing but a walking stick for the family, and they have presents for me. If I weren’t such a heartless bastard, I could have cried.

View of the valley from atop our hike on the second day

Fair Fights, Crossing of Legs, & Inherent Knowledge

So I haven’t been fired yet! That’s a reason to celebrate, is it not? So here’s ten more thoughts on the first few weeks of teaching that may or may not piss some people off (I would bet on the former).

Ati – You know how I’ve brought up the rule of three? Something to do with the holy trinity or something or other. Well it’s reared its ugly head in the classroom, where it’s commonplace for students to raise their hand while spastically fluttering their hand about and shouting Mas, mas, mas! Mas is short for mastsavlebeli (teacher), which is how the students address their teachers. I’m all for enthusiastically wanting to participate in class, but I’ve already laid down the law that the more noise you make the less likely I’ll call on you. It still hasn’t worked though, and unfortunately, Tamari has taught my year Vs (my largest, most hyper and enthusiastic class) to say May I?, which I’ll tolerate just for the purpose of getting the students to use English, even if they don’t really know what they’re saying. I’ve also weaned them off of calling me Mas and towards calling me Teacher. Baby steps.

Otsi – It’s written in our contract that under no circumstances are we supposed to use physical force in the classroom, which is fine by me; I’m currently dabbling in pacifism anyway. But that doesn’t mean the Georgian teachers aren’t hands on when they need to be. No one’s getting smacked around or anything, but it’s quite common for a teacher to grab a kid’s ear (usually a boy in the age range of ten to fourteen who somewhat resembled myself at that age; a complete pain in the ass) and give it a little twist. It’s harmless and does the trick, so I’m all for it; add in the fact that it’s a breath of fresh air when compared to how children are treated in America where kids have more rights than minorities. Although I don’t know if that beats the teachers answering their cell phones in the middle of class (yes, that does happen).

Otsdaati – Speaking of rough-housing, we have ten minute breaks in between classes, and generally I head to the teachers’ lounge to prepare for the next lesson or just read my book. But a few times I’ve either waited around in the hallway or went to class a bit early, and it’s like a war-zone out there. Kids are running around, chasing each other, wrestling, or just straight-up fighting. It strikes me all as quite Darwinistic because they behave pretty well for forty-five minutes, then that bell rings and it’s like all the rules are dropped, the teachers turn the cheek, and all hell breaks loose. Just last week I had to break up a hair-puling fight between two ten-year old girls, a first (and hopefully a last) for me. It was terrifying. Sometimes I watch the boys playing soccer in the yard during the breaks, and it resembles nothing similar to the beautiful game, but more like a mixture of rugby and MMA. Needless to say, I won’t be joining in anytime soon as I don’t think my insurance covers getting my ass kicked by my students.

Ormotsi – But I don’t really blame them for having so much pent up energy and not having a means of release. There’s not much going on at the school. I’m not going to compare it to my own experience, sine I went to one of the better private schools in the state and resembled a country club more than an academic institution (my father loved to give me the business about it too: You don’t want to be late, the cappuccino service ends at 8:30). But the lack of resources is astounding.

Ormotsdaati – Resource isn’t a word I thought much about when it comes to teaching and learning, but coming here made me realize how vital it is to the process. The Bandza School has one computer with no Internet access, they don’t have a printer or a copier, half the classrooms don’t have lighting, most of the students don’t have books or workbooks, there’s no in-door plumbing while water is taken from a well etc. I’m not complaining, as God knows there are schools in the world that don’t even have chalkboards (in Bandza, all of our classrooms have chalkboards while the students generally supply the chalk, which I found both amusing and quite thoughtful), but it does make you cognizant of the importance of resources, and how they are consistently taken advantage of or even completely ignored back in the States (I would kill for a day in an English library). As I said in my previous post, I feel like once I get finished here, I’ll be prepared to teach anywhere.

Samotsi – It’s always funny how even the most apathetic kids can seem motivated in the first few weeks of school. I was one of those kids; this year’s gonna be different, I’m gonna pay attention in class, I’m gonna take notes, I’m gonna meet with my teachers more… Yeah, right. Usually this new found scholarly attitude would last less than a month before I was spacing off in class, thinking about God knows what (usually how many chicken sandwiches I would wolf down in the day’s lunch period or how I was going to score booze for the upcoming weekend [JTTT]). I get the same feeling from certain students in Bandza; that feeling that they’d just rather not be there (since I used to be one of them, I know their characteristics and mannerisms) but I can tell they have that beginning of school buzz, even if it’s starting to wear off ever so slowly. Even the enthusiasm (or wonderment) directed towards me has faded just a bit. I’m just trying to enjoy it while it lasts and maybe figure out a way to keep it going.

Samotsdaati – I guess I don’t understand how good I have it. Tamari has told me that the students behave so much better when I am in the classroom, which is why even if I’m not doing much, she prefers to have me there. In fact, she’s even used me as a way to bribe the students into behaving better. If I’m not sitting in on a lesson (usually because Tamari tells me I don’t have to, “It does not matter.”) and the students ask, where is Max? She will tell them that I did not come because they were acting up in the previous class. It’s a complete lie, but whatever works…

Otkhmotsi– This doesn’t have much to do with teaching, but I thought of it while observing a class the other day. Georgian men have an unbelievable ability to cross their legs at a disturbing angle. It starts at a young age, as one of my students (Padri) crosses his legs to a degree that it makes me queasy just to look at (please don’t ask me why I note the level to which my boy students cross their legs). But you’ll see many older Georgian men also crossing their legs like there’s nothing in between them. It’s mostly the skinny guys who have twigs for legs, like Murmani (my hero/P.E. teacher). I mean, I’m no John Holmes, but if I lift my right leg up onto my left leg past the upper ankle, I start to get a little light-headed. So the fact that most Georgian men can’t fit a ruler in between their legs when crossed is either impressive or just plain weird. But I will say this, a man who can cross his legs, thigh over thigh, while looking comfortable comes off as much more intelligent and distinguished. Maybe it’s just that every picture I’ve ever seen of Abe Lincoln had him with his twigs crossed over each other in a way that defies physics. And no one was more intelligent or distinguished than Abe Lincoln, sexual orientation be damned.

Otkhmotsdaati – I started on this in the last post, but the difference between who I was teaching during my TEFL course and who I’m teaching now is night and day. The older Italians I was teaching in Florence paid next to nothing to attend, but wanted to be there, which is nine tenths of motivation; just showing up when you really don’t have to (they paid for a certain amount of lessons with no cancellation fee, so if they didn’t want to come, they didn’t come). Not all of my current students don’t want to be in school, but there’s definitely a few that couldn’t be bothered with it, and those kids tend to be the same boys that get their ears twisted by the teachers. This particularly pertains to my VII-IX classes, which are larger (after ninth grade, you can choose between English and Russian, so the classes are smaller) and consistently have five or six boys who don’t pay attention, talk the entire class, and can’t wait to unleash hell after that bell rings. I’ve suggested splitting them up within the classroom, which seemed revolutionary to Tamari (they’ve not quite grasped the idea of assigned seating at my school), so we’ll see if it helps. Isolating the problem usually makes it easier to solve, or at least keeps it from spreading for the time being.

Saati – And lastly, back to my stupidity. It amazes me how little I know about the English language. We all know it, but why or how we know it can range from zero, to some-what. This brings me back to my Latin classes, where I started to realize there were rules and grammar constructions within a language. Amazingly, this is something we only grasp once we begin to learn a foreign language. Generally, you don’t have to learn the rules of your own language because you inherently know them (I’d say we’re born with them, but more or less we learn them from our parents from when we’re sucking on the teet to when we’re potty trained [for some it takes longer, like the citizens of West Virginia]). Generally for TEFL jobs, the most important requirement is being a native English speaker, but I think it’s just as vital to have a thorough understanding of the rules and makeup of our own language (part of the reason some of the best English teachers I’ve met aren’t native speakers is because they had to learn the rules that we naturally but unknowingly follow). So I make sure to bone up on my own knowledge before teaching or diagramming a grammar point, because nothing makes me feel as dumb as standing up at the chalkboard and trying to remember the rules to the second conditional. That kind of reminds me of this story about Ted Williams, probably the most natural hitter to ever play baseball, and his attempt at being a hitting coach. When his players came to him asking what was the best way to hit a slider, he just said, “You see the spin, expect it to break, and you hit it.” Of course it’s not that easy, but for a baseball genius like Williams, it really was that easy. I’m no genius, but as much as I want to say it’s like this because I said so, that probably isn't the best way to teach.

For some reason, the pictures are not uploading correctly, hopefully I'll have them soon...

Daily Schedule, 'Have You Got', & Why My Latin Sucks

A picture from the monastery in Martvili, the town just ten kilometers away from me where they had a celebration this past weekend in honor of the famous teacher of David the Builder, who was apparently, a pretty big deal back in the day.

Here come the sweeping judgments I promised just a week ago: it’s backwards, all the students are ignorant, and no one speaks English. Happy? Well I’m not, so here’s a little more introspective thinking.

Ati – Before I go on, no matter what I say or write about my experience of teaching at the Bandza School, it will be unique from other TLG volunteers’ own circumstances. We might share similar problems, but for the most part, everybody has a different situation. Some teach more hours, some have less reasonable co-teachers, some have more structure, etc. My situation is my situation, and does not represent the TLG experience or the education system in Georgia. It’s like the Jersey Shore; those highly entertaining deadbeats do not represent the people of the great state of New Jersey, just the riffraff that go down the shore in the summers.

This is Ian's Grandpa Giorgi, who resembles my own Grandpa in that he's always smiling and looks way past his due date

Otsi – Let me take you through a typical day of teaching in Bandza. I wake up at around 7:30 a.m., check my email and see how much the Pirates lost by in the previous night, take a shower, and eat with the boys at around 8:15 a.m. If I have a lesson in the first period (which starts at 9 a.m.), I leave right after breakfast as it takes me about twenty minutes to walk to school (a little over a kilometer). Sometimes I get a ride from Lasha if it’s raining or someone recognizes me as the new American English teacher in town and stops to give me a ride, but then on those really special occasions I hitch a ride in a horse and cart (true story; it was like going to the prom in your Dad’s antique Porsche, except the complete opposite). Each lesson is forty-five minutes, with ten minute breaks in between. There are seven periods in each day, but I’m not sure why because no one has class in that seventh period. So my day generally runs from 9 a.m. (but only on Monday and Thursday do I have a first period lesson) to 2:20 p.m. On any given day, I will have between three and five lessons that I sit in on, but I am only the head-teacher for eleven lessons a week. I bet you’re wondering what the hell a head-teacher is?

Ian's neighbor V, who is a perverted old man, which also means he is hilarious

Otsdaati – When we started school, I had agreed with Tamari (one of the two English teachers in Bandza, and my main means of communication) that I’d sit in on all the classes and after a full week of observation, we’d figure out what was the best way to use me. See, I’m like a new toy that the Ministry of Education handed to this school, but with zero instructions on how to be used. Which is fine by me, since that allows me to dictate the terms of my teaching. So I sat in on classes for a little over a week (and no, I didn’t just sit there; I brought in my computer to show them pictures of Pittsburgh and the fam damily [including a few pictures of my father asleep on the couch with the cat resting on his belly; everyone really liked those], while I also took control of the class a few times when I wanted to diagram a grammar point). And at the end I decided it’d be best if I took complete control of three of Tamari’s classes and one of Eka’s (the other English teacher). That means I plan and run the lesson, while the other teacher is there to translate if necessary (more like a safety net than anything). As for the other classes, I will still attend them and help when needed, but I won’t be counted on to run or plan the lessons.

My neighbor and I at the monastery; I was waiting for a marshrutka by the side of the road and he picked me up. Doesn't speak a word of English but treats me like his own son...

Ormotsi – So I’m teaching the year XI’s, X’s, V’s, and one of Eka’s classes to be determined. That may not seem like a lot (it’s only eleven lessons a week, which at forty-five minutes a lesson comes out to just over eight hours of actual teaching a week). But considering the time I put into planning the lessons along with sitting in on the other lessons (probably another twelve hours of class time), I’ll still have a relatively busy schedule. I also set up office hours where the students can come to me if they are having problems (a sort of defacto English Club; I have a feeling no one will come, so I’m planning on having Pepsi and cookies by the second week. I remember what it was once like to be a student—Free food? I’m there) while also presented an option to the other teachers that I’ll give them a lesson of English once a week (they all seem eager to learn the basics of English, and receptive towards the idea).

From a mural inside the monastery in Martvili; I have zero idea who these guys are, but they look important...

Ormotsdaati – So that’s the boring schedule stuff; now to the good shit. The first thing I want to bring up, which tends to be a popular subject here at GNJB, is my stupidity. In the midst of the first lesson I taught during my TEFL course (Teaching English as a Foreign Language; a certification course I took in Florence, Italy which qualifies you to teach English anywhere in the world), I misspelled apartment by putting an extra p in there for some reason. It was quite embarrassing, but hardly the last time I will misspell a word when teaching. Thanks to the computer, spell-check, and acronyms, my generation has been forged on the inability to spell, and I of course am no outlier.

The grounds of the monastery we visited on Saturday (not the one in Martvili, this one was farther up in the mountains near a town called Salkino [spelling?]); there was a suphra being held for all the big wigs and for some reason, us teachers were invited. The tables can be seen in the background and there were a few of them; probably seated about 200 people all in all

Samotsi – But the shortcomings in my grasp of the English language don’t only lend themselves to spelling; Pittsburgh, as proud as I am of my hometown, has caused me to come off as an ignorant simpleton quite frequently. I’m fond of using a double negative from time to time (a Pittsburgh staple) while also forgetting an article or extra preposition every now and then (I’m heading down the stadium; is there supposed to be a to somewhere in there?). So it didn’t surprise me when I assigned the fifth graders a home task that involved them using the phrase have you got? I blame the student who asked me the day before, “Have you got a sister?” I lapsed back into my old self like I was casually talking to some guy named Vito at Penn Mac on a busy Saturday morning, “Hey, you got any of ‘at prosciutto left?” Needless to say, I ain’t no English scholar.

Georgian Folk Singers at the suphra on Saturday. I need to get me one of them outfits...

Samotsdaati – Speaking of my TEFL course in Italy, it was one of the better academic experiences in my life. Pound for pound, that was the most knowledge I acquired in such a short period of time. The course melded a crash course in English grammar, lesson planning, teaching tactics, and the actual act of teaching (nothing equips you to accomplish things in life like actual experience). After those four weeks, I felt like I could teach anyone English anywhere in the world. And though I’m not about to retract that belief, coming here and teaching is definitely a bit of a reality check. But it’s good for me, knocks me down a peg or two because contrary to popular belief, I am not Socrates.

The kids of the Martvili district showing us some Georgian Folk Dancing, which is amazing... Sure beats the hell out of So You Think You Can Dance

Otkhmotsi – Let’s start with the alphabet. It’s easy to teach Italians because they have the same alphabet, but Georgians have a completely different Cyrillic alphabet of 33 different letters and sounds (similar to Italian, they pronounce every letter the same way and don’t have silent letters like us crazy English speakers), while the English alphabet has 26 letters and 35+ sounds. So that’s the first thing that all students must learn, but unfortunately, due to the ever-changing environment of the Georgian educational system, not every student knows the alphabet (there’s some students in my year VIII class who don’t know the alphabet, and even a few year X’s and XII’s). Part of the reason for TLG is that the government wants to make English the second language of Georgia, so the students that were learning Russian, German, or French before (the three most popular other foreign languages) are now thrust into an English classroom. But it’s not all on the system, because many of the students just don’t care, or think they can start taking an English class midway through high school. But it’s not like it is back in the States; students aren’t split into classes by ability, instead just ushered along with the rest of their year. But despite my vast intentions, I cannot single-handedly change the system. I have to do the best with what I have.

This gent was like that one guy at a String Cheese Incident concert who took one too many hits of acid... except this was a children's dance recital

Otkhmotsdaati – This brings up another thought I’ve had rumbling around my head for quite some time. Learning a language is a lot like learning math or the sciences. You need to build a solid foundation if you’re ever going to succeed at the higher levels. You can’t understand calculus if you don’t know multiplication just like you can’t understand the perfect tense if you first don’t understand how to conjugate to have. I often come to this realization when thinking about my English degree and how I didn’t come to literature or writing until much later in life. You don’t need to have read Shakespeare to enjoy Hemmingway. All you have to do is know how to string words together (also known as reading) and have an open mind. That’s why I became an English major when I just started to enjoy learning and being a student while in college; my previous laziness and apathy don’t really come back to bite me when it comes to literature. Yeah, it’d be nice to be a little more well-read, but I have the rest of my life to devour James, Tolstoy, and Faulkner.

David the Dancer taking a drink the Georgian way; doing a split, picking it up with your mouth, and then tipping it up all without the help of your hands.

Asi – But every time there’s a Jeopardy answer with a reference to Latin, I think, “Wait, why don’t I know this? I took seven years of Latin… Oh yeah, it’s because I didn’t give a shit so I don’t remember anything.” I didn’t exactly flourish in Italian while in college either, but I blame that on my professors more than anything (I know, lame, but they were really quite terrible). But in acquiring a language, it’s so important to build a solid foundation, or else you’ll have nothing to build on later (yeah, I used the foundation/building metaphor… what of it?). So I’m trying to keep that in mind when teaching the younger kids, because there’s nothing worse than seeing a year XI zoned out while looking out the window because five years earlier they didn’t understand how to conjugate to be.

This was the contraption they used to get water from the river at the monastery where the suphra was held. It flung a bucket down about fifty meters to the river, filled itself up, and then was wound back up to the top. Water tastes so much better when you have to fetch it with an ancient pulley system.

Loud Voices, Board Games & 'It Does Not Matter'

So I told myself that I’d give it about a week before I’d make any sweeping judgments about teaching or school, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t have a few intermediary thoughts. I think I have 11-20 down by now, so I’ll go on to 10-100, because the market owners in Bandza are probably getting fed up of having to communicate prices via calculator.

Ati – My second favorite teacher at the school in Bandza (well, I should probably say the second most entertaining teacher) behind Murmani, my decrepit chain-smoking P.E. teacher, has to be the Russian teacher. I don’t even know her name, but she cracks me up. She’s also old, with long white hair and a permanent scowl on her face. If I was a student there, I’d be terrified of her. Actually, I’m pretty sure everyone is terrified of her, including the other teachers. Anytime she speaks in the teachers’ lounge, her eyes grow wide, her voice raises an octave, and she spews out very loud but punctual Georgian. But, no matter what, she always has the last say. So why do I like her? Whenever she does have some sort of shouting argument with anyone, she’ll turn away, catch my eye, and wink at me with a slight smile; almost as if to say, “I’m really not that mean, but I just like fuckin’ with everybody.” I guess she trusts this secret with only me, because I seem to be the only one who finds it entertaining.

Ian's Host-Father Dato and myself at my birthday celebration in Martvili. Dato kargi katsia

Otsi – I remember watching a Simpsons episode when I was younger in which Lisa is lost in Springfield and stumbles upon the Russian neighborhood. When she asks for directions, an old man playing chess screams back at her in Russian, causing her to run away. But in subtitles the man is in fact giving polite and precise directions. I’d never met any Russians, but this was always how I assumed they spoke; the volume or urgency of their speech had little to do with the content. I still haven’t met any Russians (except for my host-deda [mother] Ira, although she never yells) but I’m pretty sure most Georgians, especially the men, have little control over the volume of their voice (kind of like Jacob Silge, a Will Farrell character from SNL; very underrated). So if two men are just rapidly yelling at each other (like Murmani and Donaldi were on the first day of school), they could in fact just be discussing the delightful weather or sharing an amusing anecdote. The only guy I’m sure was pretty angry was that crazy guy on the marshrutka to Anaklia a while back; although even then I could be wrong. He could have just been suggesting an alternate route.

The Palace in Zugdidi, or as I like to call it, the Paris of Samegrelo

Otsdaati – Speaking of chess, I bought a small portable set that looks like someone had originally carved up whilst doing time in Siberia. It’s perfect for carrying around and only cost ten Lari in Tbilisi ($6). Unfortunately my family prefers checkers (Luka’s favorite game), dominoes (Reziko’s game of choice), or nardi (the Turkish name for backgammon). One afternoon, when the power was out, Reziko handedly beat me in dominoes, Luka dominated me in checkers (of which he was hardly humble about), and a cousin wiped the floor with me in nardi. Everybody in Georgia plays nardi, and they do it with a flair and confidence that can both amaze and bother you.

My host-brother Luka, who does not know how to destroy me in checkers with any humility

Ormotsi – If you don’t know how to play nardi or backgammon, I won’t bore you with the details, but it involves tossing a pair of dice and moving pieces around a board in a clockwise direction. There’s definitely some strategy to the game; enough so that I lose every time I play a Georgian but usually win anytime I play someone with less experience (a.k.a. other volunteers who I’ve just taught how to play). But during a majority of the game, depending on the placement of your chips, there’s an obvious move for each roll. But it doesn’t matter if you just started playing and you have to think it through for a moment, if you’re playing a Georgian and you take longer than five seconds to figure out your move, they’ll move the pieces for you. In fact, you can literally play an entire game without thinking for yourself. It actually takes any fun out of the game, which is why I try to avoid playing other Georgians (at least until I’m good enough to play at their pace), but I don’t know how to say, “Cut it out and let me think for myself.” They just wouldn’t understand, because in their mind, they’re only trying to help you.

Playing nardi like a real amateur

Ormotsdaati – While I was waiting for my marshrutka in Senaki a few weeks back, I was rummaging through my backpack looking for a book when the guy next to me saw my chess set and communicated to me that we should play. I’m pretty sure this guy was crazy, but it’s really hard to pinpoint the crazies in Georgia, because they’re all a little bit off. I think it comes down to the notion that they all want to hug you and maybe plant a kiss on your cheek, and if a stranger (especially of the same sex) wants to have any physical contact with you in the States, you automatically think he’s crazy.

Two old Georgians playing chess on the sidewalks of Tbilisi; crowd barely seen in the background

Sammotsi – Anyway, this guy (who didn’t speak a lick of English) and I end up playing a game of chess in front of half the bus station (when you play chess in Georgia, it’s never a private affair. People huddle around, although they don’t make suggestions obnoxiously; they only judge quietly with a hand on their chin and a serious gaze). I’m pretty sure he let me win, but it just so happened that said crazy guy/chess opponent was on my marshrutka back to Bandza. He kept speaking to me with great enthusiasm while I tried to express to him that I didn’t understand anything he said (ver gavige is the phrase I use the most here, just as it was in Italy: non ho capito). Eventually the guy sitting next to me who spoke some English translated that the gentleman wanted me to come back to his house in Martvili and drink tchatcha (homemade vodka that’s about seventy proof). As much as I try to never say no to these types of invitations because I know a good story would come of it, I still wasn’t feeling well from my Tbilisi trip. I’d also be lying if I didn’t say I had some reservations about ending up in the bottom of a well while being told in Georgian, “It puts the lotion on it’s skin.”

Speaking of weirdos, there was a West Virginia state flag hanging in one of the pubs of Tbilisi

Samotsdaati – But I don’t always say no to tchatcha. This past Shabati (Saturday), I was heading to Senaki for a fellow volunteer’s dabedebis dghes (birthday). I was planning on taking the 8 a.m. marshrutka that goes all the way to Zugdidi, as I was sure that one left on time in the morning (the earlier the marshrutka, the more likely it will be on time or even show up at all), but Reziko convinced me to take the one at eleven. I don’t know what it was about that morning, but for some reason I wasn’t in the best of moods (I think it had something to do with the food; it gets a bit monotonous at times). So when the marshrutka didn’t show up and Reziko just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Next marshrutka, two o’clock,” I was a little ticked. I know it’s not my host family’s job to have the marshrutka schedule memorized, but it had been maybe the fifth time in a row that their times were off, and I also know that it’s not the most concise or reliable means of transportation… But the whole thing just pissed me off. Don’t these people know I have plans and a schedule?

Otkhmotsi – I didn’t want to take it out on Reziko. It wasn’t his fault (well, maybe it was a little bit his fault) and it wasn’t like he deliberately wanted me to miss my bus. But if I’m going to stew and feel sorry for myself, I’m going to do it alone. So I told Reziko I could handle it myself and let him head back to the house. After waiting there a moment while wallowing in my own pity, I decided to head into town, where I knew I wouldn’t miss a ride heading to Senaki. Just as I was about to leave, my neighbor, who runs a very small convenience store where the road to my house and the main road meet, invited me to sit down with him and two other men behind his shop. I thought, what the hell, I could use whatever they may be offering. Five bottles of home-made tchatcha and ninety minutes later, I had forgotten my worries and had a ride already set up for me to Senaki.

This was the group at the beginning of my neighbor's make-shift lunch (notice the one already empty bottle of tchatcha beneath the table/stool)

Otkhmotsdaati – When we sat down near the ditch that runs behind his shop, it was just four of us (all older men from Bandza), and they immediately poured a full glass of tchatcha and toasted to me as a guest. When I told them about Ali’s birthday, we toasted to her, and of course we toasted to all the other things we usually toast to (peace, countries, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, children, the dead…), hence the massive amounts of vodka consumed. They also had some bread, sliced up tomatoes (these are included in every meal), and sausage, all of which was continually refilled by the host’s wife, who was working in the shop during this whole time. As time went by and we tried to communicate about my situation (my neighbor took my phone, called someone up the road, and then told me not to worry), every older guy that rode his bike past the shop was flagged down and told to join. By the time my marshrutka did show up, there were about ten men stuffed behind that small market, all taking turns at toasts and shots. The best part of it all was when I got off at my stop, the marshrutka driver wouldn’t even take my money. Sometimes, it’s nice to know people.

My neighbor with his youngest son, who, obviously, had seen this all before

Asi – I’m not really doing the whole situation justice, but the point is that in Georgia, no matter how frustrating things get, it always seems to work out. I know that won’t always be the case, but so far it’s been pretty consistent. The key on my end is to always have that mind frame of, “Sometimes, you just have to say, ‘what the fuck’.” Because I’m pretty sure that’s the mind-frame of most Georgians. My co-English teacher Temari has a great sense of humor and (as far as I can tell) is a pretty good teacher, but one of her most-used English phrases is, “It does not matter.” When I was sick on the second day of class (not the I-don’t-want-to-go-to-school sick, more like the I-hurled-out-of-my-window-last-night sick), I called her in the morning to tell her I wouldn’t be able to come in, and she just replied, “It does not matter.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or take offense.

The group behind my neighbor's convenient store by the time my marshrutka came; it was quite the gathering

Family Politics, Neglecting Farmwork, & My Hero Murmani

The Black Sea near Anaklia

So we’ve been told not to be critical towards the program in any media that could be quoted (another volunteer’s blog was quoted in an online feature), and though I doubt anybody outside my immediate family frequents this site (Hi, Grandpa!), I should probably heed the word unless I want to shipped back to the States or taken to the “rehabilitation camps” (I’m messing with you guys). So there will be no outward complaining towards TLG or the education system in Georgia; all of that will come in personal emails to close confidents who I know not to be in cahoots with Saakashvili.

Tertmet’i – Speaking of which, I won’t be overly critical of Misha here, basically because I have no real reason to be. In fact I should probably be singing his praises while spewing anti-Putin propaganda. Without Misha, I probably wouldn’t be in Georgia. He has put a tremendous amount of political power into the program (in his speech to us in Batumi, he cited his brother-in-law who has taught foreign languages abroad for twenty years as part of the motivation behind the project). There’s a reason the people of Georgia are calling us Misha’s Masts’avlebeli (Teachers). Plus, despite the ostentatiously heinous Presidential Palace (which I’m still not sure Saakashvili built), I think he’s generally been a good President to Georgia (as far as I can tell, but I’m no post-Soviet scholar). Or probably more accurately, Georgia could do a lot worse.

The monastery in Martvili that dates back to when men were still men... or something like that

Tortmet’i – But just because I think so, doesn’t make it so with all Georgians. First of all, I don’t know what a majority of Georgians think about Misha; hell, I haven’t even seen an approval rating. But I know what my two little dzma (host-brothers) think. Anytime the President is shown on TV, Luka (12-years old) looks at me, shakes his head in disappointment, and mutters, “Saakashvili, stupid.” It never gets old, which is why I always point him out when he’s shown on TV flying a plane over Batumi (true story) or visiting Azerbaijan: “Saakashvili, stupid.” Reziko (14-years old) is less vehement, but it doesn’t stop him from giving the double thumbs down with a look of disgust on his face. But all of this might stem from both of my host-brothers being half-Russian. Luka even told me that he loves Putin, which seemed odd to me. It would be like a boy born in 1860’s Virginia of a Southern father and a Northern mother saying, “Jefferson Davis, stupid.” Usually you go with the home field advantage, but what do I know.

Ian's little host-brother Luka; don't let the cuteness fool you, he's an absolute monster...

Tsamet’i – Some readers have expressed their need for more Babua Rezo (my host-Grandfather if you’re a first-timer here at GNJB). But I really don’t have all that much to tell besides what we already know; he works early in the morning, naps in the midday, and spends the rest of his time sitting on the couch in the eating house ripping cigarettes. I did notice today that Rezo lacks a ring-finger on his right hand, while only retaining half of his pointing-finger on the same hand. I can only assume this was the product of a farming accident. Actually come to think of it, not too many men in Bandza have ten workable digits; there’s either a stub here or there, a finger pointing the wrong way (something similar to what we see in football before the trainer snaps it back into place), or they have arthritis that cripples the entire hand (which makes for some awkward handshakes). Other than that, Rezo keeps out of my way, which is, I believe, because he thinks I’m either lazy or a big pus… or more likely a combination of both.

Totkhmet’i – I don’t consider myself lazy here, but I could see how someone might. I spend a lot of time in my bedroom either reading or writing, other than that I’m running to the river, tchame (eating), at school (now, but not for the three weeks preceding the start of school), or traveling to meet up with fellow volunteers. Other than actually teaching, there’s little I do that a man like Rezo would consider productive. I may be overanalyzing the situation as I just remembered that Rezo sleeps half the day, but nevertheless I do feel a bit useless at times. Especially during this time of year, which is when many are the busiest on the farms (I could try to act like I know what they’re busy with, but let’s just save myself the embarrassment, call myself a no-nothing city slicker, and move on with it). Even the boys are put to work during this time despite the start of school; after getting home, they eat, digest, and then follow the rest of the family off to the crops down the road until dark (and when I say dark, I mean dark).

Ian's other host-brother Tsotne and myself; Tsotne, unlike Luka, is a real sweatheart

Tkhutmet’i – Which kind of puts me in an awkward position. Would I like to lend a hand? Yes, of course; not only to feel like a meaningful part of the family, but also to be able to say, “Yeah, when I was twenty-five, I was sharecropping in Northwest Georgia.” But also, part of me is mindful of opening up that door (or floodgate, as I like to call it). As I said, our host-families generally don’t let us do anything (my buddy Raughley tried to dry his laundry and his host-Mom freaked out, thinking that the neighbors would see and consider them terrible hosts. “If you really want to, you can do it during the night, when they cannot see,” she said. Hanging laundry at night kind of defeats the point though, right?). But some volunteers, specifically the girls (women, or what have you), have been quite persistent that they want to help. Like my friend Stephanie who finally broke through with doing the dishes a few weeks back, and now after every meal, everyone goes into the TV room while she clears and cleans the dishes. Now, Stephanie’s a good person who doesn’t mind consistently lending a hand while not even complaining to fellow volunteers (she told us this in pride, rather than angst), but I’m a bit of an asshole. So no matter how well my Mother raised me to always do the dishes at a guests home, or how my Father would always tell me to help on the family farm if I’m ever in Georgia (the former is true, the latter… not so much); I kind of enjoy where I’m at right now, and I’m a bit scared to try and have it both ways (“Well, it was fun helping you sow some maize, but I’m a bit tired so I think I’ll retire to my room to read some Hemmingway”). I think it’s all or nothing, and I’m pretty comfortable with nothing right now. Again, if you haven’t caught on, I’m kind of an asshole.

The shavi khvino (black wine) making process at the family farm

Teqvsmet’i – Getting back to the men of Bandza, I may have a new GNJB celebrity that could take over from where Rezo left off. The Physical Education teacher at my school is my new Bandza hero. The fist time I met Murmani, I thought he was one of the other teachers’ Babua (Grandfather); he looks that old and decrepit. But no, he’s the man that must whip the young people of Bandza into tip-top shape. He’s probably seventy years old (or more accurately, he’s probably fifty-five but looks like he’s eighty-five, I just went with the in-between), he might weigh 120 pounds (I can get used to kilometers, but forget about me using kilograms… and fuck stones), he’s got arthritis in his right-hand, and he has a hearing-aid. During our first school meeting which basically involved our principle speaking to all the teachers for about an hour, Murmani sat in the corner reading the paper (which is all I ever observe him doing) until for a reason I’m still unsure of, got into a shouting argument with Donaldi (our principle with the least Georgian name I’ve come upon) for five minutes straight, after which he got up, bummed a cigarette off another male teacher, and then sat by the window puffing away. Murmani: the P.E. teacher who looks two steps from the grave, isn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with our principle, probably can’t grip any sort of sporting equipment, and smokes in the teacher’s lounge. Talk about a role model. The best part is when he tries to talk to me (he doesn’t speak a word of English and most of his Georgian is incomprehensible); all my co-teacher Tamari can translate is that Murmani is looking for a good Georgian woman for me. I can’t wait until he introduces me to his eligible forty-five year old granddaughter.

The sunset near the coast of the Black Sea

Chvidmet’i – Whenever I visit other places in Samegrelo (the region in which most of the volunteers from my group are placed), meet other Georgians (mostly other volunteers’ host-families), and tell them I am in Bandza, even if they don’t know where Bandza is, they laugh. Most of the people in Senaki, Martvili, and Abasha know where Bandza is because it’s at the crossroads between those three towns and another town called Khoni. They snicker even louder. I always thought it was mostly because they’ve seen the town and how Podunk it is. But recently, even another volunteer laughed when I told him I was in the village of Bandza. I looked at him quizzically; maybe it was just a funny name.“That’s the Georgian term for hillbilly,” he said. Later on I also found out that the Georgian word for garbage is bandzi, which explains a lot.

Tvramet’i – But honestly, I love Bandza. I love the people. I love the quiet. I love the river Abasha. I love the simplicity of it all. All of that isn’t to say I don’t get bored or need to get away every now and then, but overall, I really do enjoy it here. As I’ve said before, it may just be the honeymoon period and talk to me in two months (especially as the weather gets worse; I met a boarder policeman on a marshrutka the other day who spoke good English and all he had to say about Bandza was that it gets really cold there in the winter… great). But the simplicity is one of the main things I cherish about this place. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to put myself through work on the farm, or maybe it’s because I just finished reading Doctor Zhivago and feel a bit whimsical about the countryside, but I’ve always been a city person and always thought I’d be one, and though I wouldn’t exactly go back on that just yet, I now see the allure behind “going to the country.”

Lasha in the midst of adding sugar water to the green grapes, which will eventually make terti khvino (white wine)

Tskhramet’i – In much shorter form, this is what I tell my students when they ask me what I like most about Georgia (and every class has asked that question). I like the simplicity. I tell them that in America everybody’s in a hurry; busy, busy, busy. And then Tamari (my co-teacher) says to me, “Yes, but we are too simple here, which makes us lazy. Some people don’t even have food to eat.” At which point I nod and feel like an even bigger asshole.

And boom goes the dynamite...

Otsi – I finally found out what my host mama (father; I know it’s weird) Lasha does for a living; he works on the farm, that’s it. I’m still not sure how he affords private school for his kids, a Mercedes Benz (I kind of understand that as almost everyone here has a Mercedes), and internet, but the way Luka described it today, he does nothing all winter when there’s no work on the farm. All of this came out during a conversation we had about Lasha wanting to learn English. I had previously wrote about how the volunteers can pay back the families that take them in and feed them for free; one of the ways of going about this was to help their children with English (think aupair; only use English around the kids type of thing). But recently, I realized that more than anything, Lasha wants to learn English. I guess it was kind of short-sighted at first, but it’s become clearer and clearer that Lasha loves America, wants to visit the States with his family eventually (he’s asked several times about plane ticket costs), and would like to know some English to get around when he does go. So I told him that during the winter months, I would give him English lessons. I guess it’s something to keep him busy, and myself busy as well. Or it’s a way to make up for my neglectful farm work. Who’s the asshole now?

The immediate aftermath of the birth of a new baby bull on the farm... kind of gross

Sorry for the length of the post (and the length of the individual bullets; I know some of these probably felt like you were reading Plato, minus any sort of philosophical genius), but I really had the creative juices flowing today combined with a lot stored up between birthdays, funerals, Tbilisi, and the start of school. 

Tbilisi: Gentrification, Beach Courting, & Turkish Baths

The first thing I see when I get off the marshrutka in Bandza, droghebi (cows). I knew I was home...

Due to power outages and a busy schedule (start of school, birthday, pregnant cow), I wasn’t able to really tackle my Tbilisi trip in the way I wanted, plus I have some thoughts churning up that do not involve Tbilisi, so I’ll try to sum up the leftovers on the capital in these next ten points. The lesson is to never let things sit, although I’m sure it won’t be the last time I make it to Tbilisi  while over here.

Tertmet’i – Across from Old Tbilisi and up the slope of the hill, there’s quite the gentrification going on. It actually starts in Old Tbilisi, where the pedestrian walkway area leads to a brand new pedestrian bridge that crosses over the river. They still haven’t finished the entire bridge as it’s quartered off from the other side that leads to a yet-to-be finished park, but what is done is quite the spectacle. The entire bridge is made up of glass, and at night it’s glowing with lights that are built into the glass. More amazingly, the lights operate only when someone is on the bridge. The closer you get to the rail, the brighter that part of the bridge gets. For a country that is full of people living on the poverty line, it’s quite the lavish expenditure. Which isn’t to say that it’s not money well spent; it’s a really nice pedestrian bridge and is gorgeous at night silhouetting off the river. But I’m just sayin’…

Nicest pedestrian bridge this side of Venice

Tormet’i - Probably an even worse offense is the Presidential Palace (pictured below), which, granted I know little about (like if it was built by Saakashvili or the previous president), sits atop the hill above the new pedestrian bridge and is an absolute monstrosity. The best way to describe it is if someone with zero class won the lottery and decided to build a house that they considered “real nice.” It’s got these ridiculous columns on the face of it (which looks over the center of the city) and then an even more ridiculous glass dome at the top. It looks like something out of a bad future sci-fi movie (think Starship Troopers, inter-galactic congress type of building). I know the Georgian people and politicians want to have a nice building where they can host foreign dignitaries, but I could think of a million better ways of going about it.

That does not belong...

Tsamet’i – Like not building it in the middle of a slum. I mentioned earlier how Tbilisi, despite it being a fairly 21^st-century city, is still full of shack-like homes and rundown housing. One day, we walked up towards the Presidential Palace and after being told not to take pictures of the foreign embassies (a fair request), we came up to the Palace, which was heavily guarded but not that far off the street. Right across was a house that looked like it was one crow’s nest away from falling down. This wasn’t exactly Pennsylvania Avenue  to say the least. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but if it tells us anything, it’s that the government tore down tons of those types of tenements just to build the Palace in the first place. Who knows what will happen to the remaining slums, but I don’t foresee a happy ending. There was already someone building a fairly posh looking residence up the street; all that needed to open were a yoga studio and an artesian bread shop and you have Williamsburg, Brooklyn all over again (and they didn’t even have the spur of a Presidential Palace; just a few white people with a superiority complex).

That's more like it...

Totkhmet’i – Right up the street from the palace is the fairly new Georgian Orthodox Church and headquarters (it’s only ten years old). Now this makes sense. The church isn’t absurdly large (in fact, none of the Georgian Orthodox churches are big, something I’ll tackle at a different date), but sits in the middle of a gated and well-tended property. It’s tastefully done and well put together, the type of project that should have been emulated when thinking about a residence for the country’s most powerful person. I digress, but in a country filled with beautiful old buildings dotting the countryside, it’s weird that they could get it right with a church, but so wrong with a government building. Well, maybe it’s not that weird.

Tkhutmet’i – I said I’d get back to the Metro but there’s not much to say. It’s extremely easy to follow with just one main line (and another that we never used that makes it’s way up into the nicer suburbs south of the city) while also very affordable at just 40 tetri (24 cents) per ride. It’s a much easier way to get around than by bus or marshrutka. Unfortunately, I have no crazy stories about a man that refused to give up his seat. One thing that did stand out were the beggars on the Metro and how much business they received (business in terms of money, not business in my terms). Everybody gave them change, except for us volunteers. We have zero patience for Gypsy beggars.

Public art in honor of the Rose Revolution inside the Metro

Teqvsmet’i – Bill was the most vehemently disgusted with Gypsies. One ruined his water by sticking their finger in the spout after being denied one of Bill’s new pears, while two other gypsies latched onto him for no apparent reason and gave him a “Gypsy Rash” on his arm that has yet to go away. Then while we were playing chess in the park, a little girl who was swimming in the fountain came over to us and started yapping at me in Georgian. I tried to communicate to her that I didn’t understand, and finally she got fed up and wandered off. Bill thought she wanted money and when I asked why, he said she was a Gypsy. “How did you know?” I asked. “She had dirty feet,” Bill replied. I hadn’t noticed, but apparently that’s a dead-giveaway. I have much to learn.

These aren't Gypsies, but the couple who sang Georgian folk songs at the cafe I wrote about in the last post; couldn't leave them out

Chvidmet’i – Probably my favorite part about Tbilisi were the public parks. Having grown up in Pittsburgh and lived in Charleston, SC for a few years, I really appreciate a good public space, weather it’s a park, pedestrian walkway, or just a small fountain at an intersection (like Savannah, which has awesome public spaces). Tbilisi has heaps of parks and fountains that make the city both extremely livable and enjoyable. My favorite park ran down from Rustaveli Avenue  to the river and a bridge that held a daily out-door bazaar. Being in Bandza makes me miss just walking to a park, sitting on a bench, and people watching (or as some like to call it, stalking).

Me looking up to the statue that stands in the front of my favorite park in Tbilisi

Trvamet’i – Tbilisi has everything, even it’s own Sea! Well, actually it’s a reservoir, but it’s called the Tbilisi Sea. A few of us went up there one of the days (missing the wedding in the process; bad friends we are) and got to see a fairly odd courting session. As I’ve mentioned, sexual relations in this country are highly suppressed and complicated. But the pressure put on women to remain chaste has one resounding effect: some of the men go insane after a certain point, and will do anything just for the scent of a woman (there’s a whole other post in here about how Georgian men treat and act towards foreign [specifically American] women). At the reservoir, this Georgian guy, probably about my age, hops in the water, gets out, and then sits five feet away from a group of three girls; all of this being about ten feet away from us (meanwhile, his clothes are on the opposite side of where we are sitting, making it all the more weird). As he lies facedown on the beach, he hums/sings some Georgian song while slowly but surely edging closer and closer to the girls. Eventually he edges a part of his body onto one of the girls’ towels, which only causes them to get up and resituate. But there were zero communicative objections so the guy just continues to creep closer and closer. We were somewhat concerned, but when we caught the look of one of the girls, she just animated that he was harmless if not a bit crazy. The whole thing was odd; is this how men pick up girls in Georgia? All we knew was that if you tried that at Folly Beach, you would have the cops called on you for some mixture of harassment and assault. I’m not doing the whole situation justice, but it was one of the weirder interactions I’ve seen since getting here.

Sketchy Georgian creeping on some unsuspecting ladies at the Tbilisi Sea

Tskhramet’i – One of the last days while in Tbilisi, a group of us went to the dabanas (Turkish Baths) and got a scrub and massage. The girls and guys each got our own personal rooms, which meant that Bill, Raughley (lives in Tbilisi and knows Russian, a good guy to have around), and German Paul (only one of our group who was stationed in Batumi; highly hilarious if only for his German accent and laid-back seriousness) all got naked and sat in our personal bath/sauna (which we only lasted about 15 minutes in before having to get out and cool off). Needless to say, we all know each a whole lot better now than we did a few weeks ago. Once you’ve hung out with a buddy naked for an hour in a foreign country, you’ve officially gone from friends to good friends… and there’s no going back either. Eventually, this old wrinkly guy comes in wearing some sort of Speedo bathing suit and lays us down on this marble slab while scrubbing off all our dead skin (both sides) for five minutes. Then he gives you a five-minute massage (or cleaning) with soap, after which you soak in the tub for another ten minutes. It was the best 40 Lari ($24) I’ve ever spent. I felt five years younger when I got out of there. Thank God I don’t live in Tbilisi, because I would go broke from frequenting the baths. If anybody comes to visit, straight from the airport we’re going to take a shvitz (that’s actually a Yiddish word for sweat that my friends know me to use for shower).

Paul, Bill, and Raughley moments after our scrub down and massage, looking like a million bucs

Otsi – Bonnie M. How did it take me so long to get back to their sweet, sweet sound. I’m sure no one really cares by this point (and if you did, you clicked on the link from the last post and read all you needed to know about this German Disco group made up of Caribbean dancers/singers). When we were in Zugdidi a while back, Bill kept on noticing the odd music that played on the marshrutkas; it was in English, but we had never heard it before. Who is this band that has all of these hits in Georgia (and if it’s a hit in Georgia, it’s probably a hit in Russia and the surrounding regions) but we’ve never heard of? The one song we kept hearing in particular had the refrain of, “Ra, Ra, Rasputin. Lover of the Russian Queen.” Before we even had to Google it, the Bonie M. DVD came on outside that café in Old Tbilisi and played Ra, Ra, Rasputin along with other hits such as Daddy Cool and Rivers of Babylon. We were both stunned and in awe of their musical genius. What topped it all off was at the beginning of every song, German Paul saying, “Yeah, I know this song, too.” F’n Germans.

As promised, a picture of me with the crazy guy outside of the Beatles Club