My experience as a Migrant Farm Worker (A compilation of 2 days out of many spent in the vineyards)

In Georgia, when the grapes are ready, everyone gathers together, finding whatever knives they can (this time I had a butter knife), hops in the pick-up and heads to the vineyard for the grape harvest, picking up a few contract laborers along the way. The going rate for grape-picking from dawn (a loose term in Georgia, which is more like noon) to dusk is 10 Georgian Lari (GEL) (approximately $8) plus lunch. If you think grape-picking is fluffy work, think again.

I started my day at an early hour, rising with the sun (as I had been told that we would get going early), excited to participate in the famous “rtveli” (the grape harvest) (the “r” is essentially silent, but I was chastised a bit by a cute 6-foot 6-inch tall man when I wrote “tveli”). Such enthusiasm was quickly stifled by the family: instead, my mother-in-law wanted to ease slowly into the day with a few cups of thick Turkish coffee (called “nalekiani kava”) and the men were bustling around the farm trying to arrange wine barrels (never mind that they could have done this any time in the past few days that we were hanging around wondering what to do), as if it were a surprise that rtveli had actually come.

After drinking coffee with Irina and changing my clothes a few times to accomplish just the right temperature regardless of the work-load or position of the sun, I saw the men pile into the truck. Excitement was mine! Thinking we were finally on our way, I headed toward the truck, but quickly learned that it was a false alarm: they first needed to find (borrow) a scale for weighing the grapes. Again, something that might have been done in one of the previous leisurely days spent on the farm was saved for the day of the harvest. Perhaps it makes things more fun when you don’t know whether you’ll be able to weigh or store the pick. I’m not sure - I have yet to embrace that mentality.

It doesn’t get me down, however, because I then had a small chance to write some thoughts on paper (in secret of course, because if I was caught philosophizing in any way, my pen would be swept from my hand and I would be made to sit and watch while everyone else bustled around the farm (because I was the new bride, they would expect me to “relax”)). So I retired up to my room, saying that I had a few things to do there while we waited for the men to find a scale. Meanwhile, the women cooked and gossiped about people they knew and bills they had to pay.

Babo (G’s grandmother) is the only other person without much to do any more - sitting in her wheelchair and watching the world go by. Her daily fun consists of whacking at the small puppy and cat with a stick when they start to banter. Her wide toothless smile and twinkling eyes when she makes them jump make it easier to forgive the not-so-animal-friendly behavior. Once, to add some excitement to the day, she released her wheelchair brake and rolled down the driveway heading straight for the garden fence. I caught her about ½ inch before her front wheel hit the curb. Furrowed brows for the family were lost when we looked at her laughing face and realized that she had done it on purpose: she was quite satisfied with the bustle she was still able to produce.

An indefinite amount of time later, the men finally found a scale - ancient and rusted through, but they had been assured that it worked nonetheless. Then, and only then, they kicked into gear, hurrying me up to go as if they’d been waiting for me all morning. I rushed around to gather my things and took my seat in the back of the truck, thinking I would be polite and let the others sit in front. However, I didn’t realize the sheer number of people who would be crammed into the truck’s cab and bed. I realized how fortunate I was as a female because I was allowed (actually made) to ride in the cab - smashed between the wall of the truck and my mother-in-law not unlike a sardine waiting for the canning seal. Being the owner (a loose term at best) of the truck, and therefore the driver, G was also inside the cab. The rest of the men rode in the bed with the scale, buckets and bags.

On the way to the vineyard (about a 15 minute ride from the house), we stop and greet friends and friends of friends and relatives of friends and friends of friends of friends on the road. We ask them all if they’re interested in helping us, and some take us up on the offer, run back into their house to grab their buckets, and hop into the truck (women inside, men outside). When we finally make it to the vineyard, having taken much longer than the 15 minutes due to the greeting factor, everyone piles out, knife in hand and wonders where to start.

To harvest grapes by hand, two people must work either side of one row, helping to spot the grapes on each other’s side. Aunt Dali has the greatest work ethic of anyone in the family and she watches the men, bucket in hand, waiting with a twinkle in her eye for her husband to finish what he’s doing and walk down to begin the row with her. Irina notices that I’m ready to get some work done and grabs my hand to take me down another row.

Nugzari (Dali’s husband), however, has different ideas about how to begin the harvest. First and foremost, wine from last year’s harvest must be drunk to toast this year’s harvest, always pouring some into the earth where the vines grow for libation. I cannot tell a lie, getting me to join the wine-drinking is never very difficult. I joined right in for the fun. We toasted last year’s harvest, this year’s harvest, each other’s health and God. Not necessarily in that order.

We had forgotten the glasses. But because wine and fun were the most important aspects of the day, we improvised: using a dull knife, George cut the top off of a spare water bottle to make two drinking vessels and we toasted with jagged pale blue plastic glasses, each taking our turn. The wine tasted just as sweet.

After a few glasses of wine and libation pouring, the picking began. Irina was my partner for the row and she was an expert, whizzing down the row with years of experience, spotting grapes growing near the ground in the grass on my side like a pro. The brambles were thick and it took me a while to get the hang of spotting the elusive grapes, but my eyes and the rest of my senses adjusted and before the end of the day I was doing quite well myself. Except for the headache. Note to self: do not consume 3 glasses of wine without eating anything in close proximity and then proceed to do hard labor in the sun. Next time I’ll know better!

The picking gets left to the women except for a few brave men who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. And they do get dirty: grape vine sap combined with the juice from accidentally crushed grapes creates a clear tar-like substance that smears easily on human skin but is irremovable without clean water (not available en mass in the middle of a field) and continues to build up all over the hands and under the nails as the day goes on. In addition to dirty hands, we also acquire sore backs and fingers from repetitive motion. I imagine the opportunity for chatting might alleviate some of the pain, but alas, my propensity for such things is minimal, especially when it requires the extra effort to translate before speaking. Hence, my main goal quickly became getting the work done as fast as possible. Efficiency was the name of my game. Descendant of the German American farmers that I am.

Efficiency, however, is not a concept easily embraced by the Georgians. In fact, there is no direct translation for the word (we’ve spent many a long hour trying to find one). The Georgians prefer to work at a steady pace and take frequent breaks. Generally the men do this break-taking much more often than the women (cigarettes are the main culprit). In fact, more likely than not, the men will eventually find themselves simply hanging out near the truck all together, smoking, and discussing strategy while waiting for the grapes to be delivered to them for weighing on the ancient scale and loading onto the truck.

In a perfect picking world, when we’ve filled a bucket, we’re supposed to yell vedrebi” (meaning “buckets”), and one of the men is then supposed to rush down our row with empty buckets, drop them at our feet and rush back down the row to the truck with our full buckets where the grapes can continue on their journey. However, like many other male/female scenarios you might be able to envision, as the hours wore on, calls for vedrebi were less and less answered. The non-smoking man (there was one) ended up running buckets while the smokers stayed at the truck to “weigh the grapes”.

At one point in the day, some Azerbaijani men appeared in one of the rows of grapes offering to trade a bucket of mutton for two buckets of grapes. Not a bad trade for meat eaters picking grapes. George leapt at the deal and lunch (which originally consisted of leftover stew, bread, tomatoes and pasta) suddenly held new excitement for the non-vegetarian pickers.

Looking forward to another party opportunity, Nugzari headed to the picnic area and began stripping tree branches to make skewers for the mutton. I jumped at the chance to wash my hands and headed toward the truck and picnic area to make myself useful. Somehow, and I’m not quite sure how, plates and silverware appeared, food and people migrated to the table, and bowls overflowing with fresh meat cooked over grapevine coals found the hungry stomachs of the grape-picking crew. And of course, there was more wine. This time, I passed on the wine and drank a few glasses of water instead.

Getting back to picking was easier than I had imagined: we were just about half way through with our goal for the day (4 tons) and the sun was making its way into the lower half of the sky. My continued efforts to speed things along would have made my mother proud, but fell on deaf ears in the Georgian countryside. Perhaps it has something to do with the weather or maybe the crop itself. Although their actual stress level is likely the same as other poor farmers all over the world, Georgian vintners appear to enjoy life every step of the way, never rushing a task or dinner party.

My favorite afternoon undertaking became the black grape harvest. It was my job and my job only. Never having been much of a team player, I was relieved to finally be on my own where my thoughts could play without interruption. I also had the added bonus of being able to work through rows that had been picked already, making me feel doubly efficient. Walking down the rows with a bucket in either hand, free from the crowd, I hunted the black grapes that had been left behind for a separate pick and to make my favorite black wine. They came in small patches, one vine here, another there, throughout the huge vineyard. I found the black grapes with ease and even caught many good bunches of pink grapes that had been overlooked. Again, feeling doubly efficient.

Being outside the crowd, a call of “vedrebi” really fell on deaf ears, so I had to carry my own buckets. Good exercise, but tough work for someone who had only eaten some bread and a tomato earlier in the day (the stew and pasta had meat). Not to mention the 3 cups of wine that began the day. Hence, I, too, would spend some time at the truck with the weighing men, helping them with their tasks. I thought up many solutions to time-consuming problems they faced with the grape weigh, pack and transfer, but something got lost in translation when I tried to explain. They were likely relieved when I’d take my empty buckets and traipse back down another row taking my ideas about efficiency with me.

Only once did I require assistance with my black grape task: when I came upon the bees. If you know me, you know that I’m not a flighty person when it comes to being around other living creatures, and in fact, have been known to don protective netting and gloves and even harvest honey myself. However, when it came to repeatedly plunging my sap-covered hand into a bramble of vines and grasses to pull out multiple bunches of grapes, each of which had approximately one bee per grape, not perched, but almost submerged into the grape’s flesh, obviously enjoying its newfound treasure, I hesitated. If it had been only one bunch, I would have left it for the bees. But the bees had apparently just found this particular vine’s grapes and had taken control of the whole vine. Knowing what I know about nature, it wasn’t difficult for me to deduce that this vine’s grapes must be exceptionally tasty, given the bees’ preference for it. I knew I had to get those grapes. I called for help and Irina was there in a flash. She took one look at the grapes, one look at me, gave a little laugh, tossed her head and plunged both hands into the brambles to pull out the grapes. Nary a sting. Truly amazing. She had all of the grapes off the vine within seconds, gave me another little look similar to the grinning look she gives me when she catches me philosophizing, and went back to her own buckets, leaving me to wonder in amazement at her expertise.

Eventually (when dusk came), the men put down their cigarettes and pitched in to pick the last of the grapes. By the time we finished picking, the sun had gone down and we had to load the last of the grapes onto the pickup truck by the setting sun’s afterglow. When we finally got the truck loaded, we piled in fast and headed for home: there was still much work to do back at the farm. We decided not to stop at the harvest church and party house (a place where thanking God and drinking wine are really one in the same) on the way back because of the late hour. Instead, we drove the workers and their buckets home for the night, finally arriving at our own home, where we needed to crush the grapes.

After efforts to make the electricity work so we could have some light, we hauled buckets of grapes to the crank-handle grape crusher perched on top of the huge wine barrel. When one barrel would fill, we would move the crusher to another and begin again. We filled one large oak barrel and two small ones with one ton of grapes and sold the other three tons to a buyer in town.

It was a banner harvest. In one day, we picked 22 one-hundred-meter rows, yielding four tons of grapes. No one could decide whether the good fortune was due to my entry into the family or last year’s “rolling”. Georgian tradition holds that at the end of every harvest, you must take someone believed to be or have good luck and roll them around in the vineyard to ensure a good harvest for the next year. Last year, they rolled George’s niece Tatuli. This year, they talked about rolling me, but that fun was forgotten when the sun went down. I was happy not to be rolled. That night, we all slept well.

Well, the wedding was a success. Like a fleet of ships, the Americans came in the night and stole away in the night, carrying some of our cargo back to the little pink house... Seven brave souls made the trip from the other side of the world to participate in our nuptials and enjoy Georgian hospitality and countryside. We showed them our city here, ate with them in a restaurant across the river from the ancient Jvari Monastery and danced and sang with the family under the grapevines the next evening in Sopeli. It was good.

Our wedding day started at 9:00 a.m., when I went to the dress rental shop and salon, where they did my hair, painted my nails, applied my make up, cinched me into my dress and sent me on my way. G’s best men picked me up and dropped me off at home, where I and my family waited for the groom, who had been calling for the last 45 minutes to find out when he could come up the hill.

When I gave him the green light, G and his entire group of family and friends finally walked up the hill to break down the door and “steal” me from my home. When I heard he was on the way, I hid in the wardrobe, only a little piece of my dress peeking out in hopes that he would find me that way. It worked. We emerged from the room together to a mass of family and friends crowded in the house and had a champagne toast. G’s family sang a song that I’m still hoping he will translate for me, since it made me cry it was so beautiful. Makeup ruined before we even get out of the house! No matter.

After some cake and champagne, we went outside to find our limousine waiting. The wedding party hopped in and we were off for a tour of the city, family and friends following close behind, honking their horns and vying for position close to our car.

First, we stopped at Metekhi Church for pictures and more toasting. We encountered many beggars there, as Metekhi is one of the favorite spots for wedding parties to stop. Our best men had apparently not studied the tricks of best men past, and were not prepared for the gypsies. Apparently it is common knowledge here for the best men (especially at Metekhi) to have pockets full of change that they throw far away from the wedding party so that the gypsy children run to collect it and the wedding party can have their photos taken in peace during the time it takes the children to collect the change. We did not have this luxury, so our stay at Metekhi was brief.

Back in the limo and off to Jvari Monastery, a 5th Century monastery high on the hill overlooking Mtsheta, the original capitol of Georgia and the city where we were to be married. We lit candles Jvari and had our photos taken with tourists who found us particularly interesting. Next stop: Mtsheta.

In Mtsheta, we met up with the rest of our guests for the wedding and walked past our favorite busker, who sang a song for us as we walked through the fortress gate and into the church yard. On the inside was a priest throwing water on people who enter and leave. We had a good dousing before making our way to the church doors. On the way to the church, a group of French tourists stopped us to take our pictures again, particularly pleased with our look (likely because I am clearly not a Georgian and G was wearing the traditional Georgian costume called Chokha) over all of the other Georgian brides and grooms in the yard.

The special treatment continued: we entered the 12th Century church and services had begun, beautiful singing coming from the inside. We waited in the center of the church to be escorted into the small chapel where our marriage ceremony was then performed. As women, apparently it was a treat to be allowed in this chapel, where but for during marriage ceremonies, women are not allowed.

The priest positioned us and our wedding party in a semi-circle in front of him. He called G and his best men into the altar room to discuss the business of a donation and, as an aside, got G’s email address because he was interested in trying to get to Minnesota. When the business was sorted out, we lit candles to hold for the ceremony. The priest then took our rings, turned his back to us and walked up to the altar, presumably blessing them there. When he came down, he put the rings over the first knuckle of our fingers and went back to the altar to do some more praying. We were grateful for this brief moment to try to get our respective rings over the larger knuckle, which we had worried a bit about, since we had never tried them on before that time. When the priest came back down, he placed crowns on our heads, had us sip wine from the same cup and joined our hands under his cloth and walked us in a circle (carefully taking care to keep the candles lit), wedding party following, 3 times. (Apparently, this walk is supposed to be around the church, but in the interest of time, we stayed inside the chapel.) And that was it - we were officially married in the Orhodox church! We kissed each other on the cheeks and turned to receive our guests’ congratulations. Some people (who could fit in the chapel) came up to congratulate us and then we made our way back outside where we found more guests and G even found some friends who were attending another wedding at the same church.

After the ceremony, we headed back to the limo for a ride to the restaurant, where we had a champagne reception. After more greeting, we headed in for the meal.

Originally, G and I had carefully selected the food items that we liked at the restaurant only to be thwarted by G’s family’s scolding that there wasn’t enough meat on the menu (we only had approximately 8 meat dishes and we apparently needed 10 or more, including the traditional boiled fish). In addition, saving money was a priority for the family, so approximately 10 family members and neighbors decided to get involved and purchase all of the food themselves so that they could have the leftovers at the end of the party. Mayhem ensued, as frozen chickens and large boxes of meat began pouring into our homes waiting for the large party. I’m not sure if we actually saved any money in the process, but it was a learning experience, namely that sometimes it’s better to pay a little extra for the convenience of less stress at such a time.

Our Tamada (G’s father’s eldest sister’s husband) unfortunately did not speak English, so much of the toasting was lost on me. Mom and Mike, however had rehearsed and presented a wonderful toast in Georgian, Mom speaking with a Swedish accent and Mike translating into Russian for the guests who didn’t catch the Swedish Georgian accent but were sufficiently impressed nonetheless.

The wedding party sat at a head table on stage, looking out over our guests, stepping down to dance a traditional Georgian dance and some fun American dancing as well. The musicians incorporated both cultures into their repertoire including songs like New York New York and other national ballads. G’s family, being the wonderful singers that they are, sang many traditional Georgian songs acapella for anyone interested in listening...

At the end of the evening, G and I did not drive off into the sunset in a car just for us to go on a honeymoon as might be expected. Instead, we packed up the gifts and food and organized a way for people to get home, all piling into various vehicles that were at the wedding. Recalling the circus clown cars will give you a good idea about how Georgian transportation works: as many people as possible plus two pile into any vehicle, all getting out of the vehicle to drop people off at their respective homes, generally all piling out to let the first passenger off, who is invariably in the middle somewhere. My luxury for the evening was sitting in the front seat of the truck with my dress taking up the extra seat.

The next day, we all headed to Sopeli for the second day party, where we enjoyed the same meat dishes (as a vegetarian, my diet here consists of tomatoes, cucumbers and parsley and although I believe there may be many other wonderful dishes that might taste good to me, I never see them ... meat is the biggest sign of wealth and hospitality, so, alas, meat is what is served to all).

The party in the village felt even better than the wedding party: with a smaller group of friends and family, Soso at the head of the table, and grapes hanging above. Food and wine taste better and friends and family love better when under the grapes in Sopeli. Even my Georgian gets better with a few glasses of Soso’s wine! We danced on the uneven pavement under the grapes, snuck bones to the stray dogs, and sang about love.

G recited a poem that he had written when he was 16 for the woman he would marry some day and I cried.

We spent the night and woke up to a symphony of farm animals the next morning. A little fresh mint tea relaxed us into the day and we headed back to Tbilisi for the next adventure…

Old Fashioned Ways

Giorgi sold a Subaru last month to some "Subaru racers" from Moscow. According to G's father, they were hard on the car during their test drive, so it wasn't surprising that they blew out the engine less than 1 week later. After doing so, and not surprisingingly, they decided that they wanted to return the car for a full refund. G, as some of you know, will avoid conflict at all costs and it often gets him even deeper in trouble. So, in true form, he avoided their calls until I couldn't stand to hear his phone ring any more and his brother (the true negotiator) was back in town from vacation. They set a meeting at G's parents' house where G, his brother, his dad and his cousin (who's bigger than G) all met with the buyers and their clan. At that meeting, G agreed to refund some money to the buyers so that they could have some money to fix the wrecked engine.

G's generosity apparently backfired a bit because the buyers began calling more and more instead of less and less, eventually saying that the money wasn't enough to purchase a brand new engine (which was never part of the deal) and that they would really rather return the car for a full refund (yes, it sounds a bit like a broken record).

As an aside, I can understand why someone here would not want to embark on the joy of dealing with engine replacement in the Republic of Georgia. If you'd like to know a bit what it's like, see the "Poti" story below, but add a few months to the time period spent running around between various "parts" stores which are really small shops opened by people who have a various assortment of engine parts that may or may not be identifiable and do not guarantee any of them, nor do they even know what half of them are.

I began to get frustrated. Worrying about car buyers who ruined a car was not on my list of things to do this month. Finally, G agreed to meet them again and tell them once and for all that they bought the car "as is" and if they'd like to hire him to find cheaper parts for it, they can do that but he won't be refunding any more money for a problem they likely caused. I personally can even vouch for this, as I had driven the car for a while before they purchased it and it was fine.

G agreed to meet them at 8:00 p.m. at the entrance to Vake Park. At 7:30, they started their incessant calling, saying they were there and wondering where G was. Seriously. G told them to wait unitl 8:00, as agreed upon, at which time, he went with his brother and one of his best men for the wedding, Zura, to meet the buyers yet again. G, Gocha, and Zura were dressed in jeans and button down shirts of various colors, a little "off" for the standard Georgian "showdown". The buyers, however, were in true form, this time numbering 8 and wearing all black, ready to intimidate in number and fashion.

Unfortunately for the buyers, their intimidating status did not produce the desired effect and, in fact, backfired a bit. G told them again that he was not going to refund their money, at which point, they all started speaking at once, the effect of which was that no one could be understood. Gocha then suggested that they were not at a concert and perhaps only one should speak for all. The buyer, a little man, began to speak, but quickly got upset when he realized that G, Gocha and Zura were not interested in any more negotiating. With such frustration, the buyer began jumping up and down and Zura, not missing a beat, followed Gocha's earlier lead and suggested that neither were they at a circus. The little man got so enraged that he began to yell at Zura, at which point, Zura had had enough and asked the little man to look closely at his face. When the little man looked at Zura's face, he realized that the higher hand had been dealt to G: Zura is one of the most famous police officers in Tbilisi, often on the television and for all intents and purposes, above the law.

Around this time, Giorgi's other best man showed up, not knowing that he would be coming upon this "showdown" and only wanting to discuss plans for the wedding. He fell right into place, though, reasonably advising the little man and his cohorts that they had no case (Giorgi's other best man is a lawyer here in Tbilisi) and should probably stop wasting everyone's time. Eventually, the 8 finally "agreed" that a rebuilt motor may actually work as well as one that was not rebuilt and decided to leave it as such.

Fortunately for George (and this country), civility and law won over the old fashioned ways of "negotiating" which, in the past, would likely have been decided by violence.

Sopeli

September 1st was a big birthday day in Georgia: we began the evening at G’s Best Man’s birthday supra (dinner party) in Buriani (roasted piglet and all) and then raced home to Tbilisi to have a family birthday party for Gocha at a restaurant in town.

The next day was Gocha’s supra in Sopeli where, as you might be able to guess by now, everyone partied into the night under the grape ceiling led by none other than Giorgi & Gocha’s father, Soso. For men in the village who like a challenge, he is their benchmark and oftentimes idol. Especially for those who would like a drinking competition. His idea for Gocha’s supra on the 2nd was to have every man have a 1-liter bottle of wine by his side, using it to pour into his glass for the evening’s toasts. In a way, his idea was the great equalizer: everyone was to drink the same amount throughout the evening; however, once someone was ready for their 2nd liter bottle, everyone else was required to quickly drink down the rest of their liter bottle in order to be supplied with a second liter bottle. Soso, of course, would always win the game and delight in watching everyone else have to drink down their leftover wine before he brought out another round. Fortunately, women don’t have to partake in the Georgian drinking games, and the smarter men don’t even try to compete. There are still some, though, who try to prove themselves and win his favor through following his rules. For me, winning his favor is much more preferable through wit.

As you might have guessed, Soso also carries a reputation in the village for being a little crazy. He was so bothered by the mosquitoes the first night we were there, he took the pickup, a shotgun, and his quilt (made by my mother for Giorgi, but Soso has adopted it as his own) up into the hills and slept under the stars. It must have been a good sleep because he was up bright and early the next morning, taking care of the farm and his pigs.

When G and I finally rose, we went to visit the family’s vineyards (one new, recently purchased by G and the other old, purchased and tended by his grandfather). Our vineyard grapes were looking good and should be ready for harvest in a few weeks. We also have the added bonus of almond trees all around, so we stuffed our pockets like chipmunk cheeks with fresh almonds as we wandered down the rows of grapes.

At the end of our rows of grapes, I lit up with excitement as I saw a burro and her baby in the neighboring pasture. They pricked their ears when we emerged, and the baby ran to hide behind her mother, only her long rabbit ears peeking over her mother’s back. G waited patiently as I bonded with the burro and eventually even touched the baby’s nose from the other side of her mother. We became fast friends as soon as I discovered how much she loved the grapes, so I traipsed back and forth from the vines a few times to make her happy before we were on our way. It was hard to leave, but G had eventually had enough of my nature time.

Trying to find G’s grandfather’s vineyard we found ourselves in the middle of a sunflower field, where G hopped out and grabbed a sunflower head for his own nibbling. Backtracking and racing along bumpy dirt roads that looked like veins in a huge body, I was amazed when we actually did find the vineyard. No almond trees, but the grapes were already sweet, so we put a few bunches in the truck and headed out to look for a wild horse that we had heard about earlier in our stay.

We came upon 2 mares with foals at their sides where the wild horse was supposed to live and I took out the grapes, hoping to make friends as I had with the burro. The horses weren’t too interested in friendship, although one did partake in the treats I brought for her. At that point, G got nervous and called me back to the truck, having just seen someone spot us from the farm up on the hill and go back inside. G was worried that they might think we were horse thieves (as Azerbaijan was nearby and apparently people come from there to steal the Georgian’s horses). I wasn’t too worried. A blonde girl in a pink t-shirt would hardly look like an Azerbaijani horse thief, but I went back to the truck anyway and suggested that we head to the farm and meet the owners.

When we arrived, the farm complex looked abandoned, but there were a few families living there. I felt like I was in an old western: there was a huge one-level cement house with rundown outbuildings and random pieces of trash like an old rubber boot lying around. The only bit of color on the property was a little beagle puppy who adored belly rubs and lying in the shade. Everything else was gray: dogs, horses, men. Giorgi, of course, found someone he knew (the son of our neighbors in the village) and the boy ran out to catch a horse for me to ride. He came racing back bareback with a halter and “lead” on the horse (although the lead was a chain that he had creatively wrapped around the small mare’s face for steering) with the baby screaming in the distance, running to catch up. It turned out to be the mare with whom I had earlier shared my grapes. The boy offered her for me to ride, and I hopped up quite easily (she was probably less than 15 hands high (e.g. her back was about 10 inches shorter than Vegas’) and rode around the compound unable to steer without yanking the chain. I opted for a bridle (which turned out to be equally gentle) and saddle (which looked more like a small flotation device), and rode into the hills for a little trail ride, baby trotting behind. Although I miss riding, I’ve realized that I’m a bit spoiled because nothing can really compare to Vegas. So, I came back early and we went home.

That night we had dinner at another relative’s house (everyone seems to be related in the village) and for the first time, I really began to appreciate the Georgian toast. In addition to the standard toasting to love, Georgia, dead people and G’s and my future, I heard some amazing toasts to people sitting around the table that included wonderful memories of those people, including a cousin’s memory of G’s mother on her wedding day and how, when he was a teenager chasing his friend around a party, she was the first bride he had ever seen when his friend (her younger brother) hid behind her to escape. He was enamored with her beauty. It was wonderful to hear memories of people sitting around the table about other people I know. We also were fortunate enough to be in the home of Georgian dancers, so when the dinner and toasting were waning, the music came out and everyone took turns dancing the traditional Georgian dance (even me!). The children were quite impressive and I’m hoping to get a lesson or two from them before our big show!

On a not-so-romantic note, Georgians aren’t too advanced when it comes to differentiating between “wive’s tales” and reality. When I went outside to pet the kitten sitting on the step, the children were right by my side, trying to get it away from me and yanking at the hair on it’s back as if to rip it out. I kept telling them to stop but they would have nothing of it, pretending not to hear me. I finally asked what was going on -- why must they fight with a kitten who’s only trying to rest? After much translation and miscommunication, I discovered that Georgians believe that cat hair can kill you. No joke. They believe that it is possible to inhale cat hair in a way that it sticks to your lungs and gives you a disease “similar to cancer” and you die. In fact, the grandfather in that family had just that happen to him. I wondered if he smoked and they said he did, but the lung disease was not due to the cigarettes, but rather, the cat hair. I had to pull one of the children aside and plant the seed in his mind that such a belief was definitely not true. I think he believed me.

The next morning, I went along with G and the men in the family and a few close friends from the village to harvest a crop of sunflowers that was not thick enough for the combines. The women thought I was insane of course, but I needed some exercise and something new to photograph, as I had not had my camera with me for the last 2 days, so I hopped in the back of the pickup on a burlap sack, knife in hand and was off to do work for the farm. The work was tough: the grass was taller than me and brambles were everywhere we walked. Under the brambles, it was a little muddy, but it felt good to get dirty. We chopped the heads off of the good sunflowers with old dull knives, walking side by side up the rows, leaving the bad ones for the birds. It took less than 2 hours and we had a pick-up truck load full of sunflower heads for the women to bang with sticks above a tarp to release the seeds. Once the seeds are collected, they’ll take it to the local processing house to make sunflower oil for the family to eat throughout the year. The men were embarrassed when I was snapping photos, worried that the Americans would feel sorry for them for having no harvest. So, all you Americans out there, rest assured, the rest of the fields are healthy and ready for the combines to roll through. This one just gave me a little bit of an adventure!

Before heading home that day, G and I made a quick trip to Signagi, a town near our Sopeli (called Bodbe) that is being completely rebuilt by the government as a tourist town. It felt a little like we were on a movie set at Universal Studios: locals were sparse, only workmen were on the streets. Homes didn’t look lived-in, and construction was literally on every major building in the city and it was difficult to find a restaurant or tourist attraction. We finally found a nice restaurant after driving through mounds of construction, ate fried potatoes and fried mushrooms, and played some dominoes. I don’t recommend playing dominoes with G unless you’re in the mood to be beat quite badly. I cut the stay short, as I wasn’t in this type of mood that day, and we headed home to Tbilisi, where we’ve been enjoying running water and lack of mosquitoes ever since.

Kazbegi on Maryamoba

Our American friend had Tuesday off work and his wife suggested that we head to Kazbegi (she knew that I’ve been dying to go there since we arrived in Georgia). We all piled into the pick-up truck and headed out at 7:00 a.m. for the 3 hour drive. Not long after we left the city, we were bombarded with incredible vistas from every direction and they didn’t stop for the entire drive. Many times, I had to tell G to stop the car so we could get out and take pictures. Haystacks were my personal favorite on the drive. Here, of course, they make haystacks the old-fashioned way: starting with a pole in the middle, lifting the hay (that has been cut with a scythe and hand-turned to dry) with pitchforks and stomping it down around the pole, sloping the top so that the rain runs off. They were all over the mountains, along with the cows. I’ve never seen mountain cows before now.

When we arrived in the small town at the bottom of the hike, we sat in a little café and ordered fresh Khachapuri (which wasn’t on the menu, but G, in his usual fashion, sweet-talked the female proprietor into making us some anyway), drank warm vodka out of the cooler that wasn’t plugged in, and joked about our adventures yet to come.

After our breakfast of champions, we hopped back in the truck and started up the hill, following the rest of the people up to the Church of the Holy Trinity. Unbeknownst to us, August 28th was a national religious holiday: the day the Virgin Mary died. As such, it was a day for religious pilgrimages for the Georgians, so Don, Nagila, G and I went on a 2-hour hike up to a remote church in the mountains with about 700 other people that day. The path was not an easy one, either, with loose rocks and a steep grade for the better part of two hours. I toss fashion out the window when faced with such adversity, but Georgian slaves to fashion know no bounds: high heels and flip flops were not an uncommon sight hiking next to me on the mountain.

When we reached the church, we were not disappointed: vistas all around and horseman racing along the road and in the fields, hoping to rent a horse for a ride. Hundreds of people gathered in the fields around the church to pay homage to their favorite saint. Many also brought lunch along in the form of a live sheep that they would slaughter later in the afternoon for a lovely picnic in the shadow of their God’s house. Were I a little younger and unaware of the blood splatters across the grass, I might have believed they were pets. Part of me still hopes some might have been shown mercy. Probably not.

We and the masses squeezed into the small fortress of the church, where we took more pictures and watched the rest of the people proceed to walk around and kiss all 4 corners of the church so that they would be shown mercy. Most do it with their lips, but G has modified it to a kiss on the hand which he then touches to the wall. A bit more hygienic, but I wonder whether his salvation would then be modified? So many questions when it comes to these unwritten rules for Christians here! I feel, however, that I must confess my own superstitious nature ingrained from somewhere: just this morning as I was cleaning the counter-tops in my kitchen, I spilled some salt. My mind thought of superstition disguised as religion in so many places and hesitated for a moment. But I couldn’t stand it: I had to toss some of the spilled salt over my shoulder to undo any bad luck that might otherwise have befallen me. Alas! We all seem to be slaves to some type of superstition!

Where was I? Oh yes - Kazbegi. The only disappointment of the day was the fact that after making the hike on a beautiful day, we found the big mountain a bit shy and hiding behind the clouds. Like a birka, they covered it’s face and only occasionally could we catch a glimpse of how beautiful it was before it would quickly look away and be enveloped by the clouds once again. Nonetheless, the vistas remained breathtaking.

We found a shortcut back to the truck through a graveyard (not a bad place to take one’s final rest I thought, considering) and had a picnic of watermelon and left over Khachapuri back at the truck. When it was time to leave, there was a large traffic jam (30 cars waiting to come up and 10 waiting to go down). Majority won, and we had to back up the single rocky lane dirt road until we could find a “shoulder” to pause on. Thank goodness for 4-wheel drive! On the way home, more vistas and little cat naps for those of us not behind the wheel. We slept well that night.

Dog Days

The last few days of August have brought bounty in apples from Buriani and we can finally feel a chill in the air when the wind blows just right. We both caught colds after our Turkish holiday and had long since swallowed the few capsules of DayQuil that I had brought from the states. However, there is a silver lining to the story: we were invited to our friend’s apartment for a special remedy. When we arrived, we toasted our friendship with Araq (which, alongside vodka, is supposed to be a cure-all), and ate fresh plums. When our focus was waning, she finally sent us home with her secret homemade cold and flu remedy that tasted a lot like vinegar and instructed us to cure fever by soaking 100% cotton socks in 3 parts water 1 part vinegar and then wearing them to bed (this will suck the fever out of the body). I did not have a fever, so did not partake, but soaked G’s socks for him and he was cured of his small fever by the next day.

Georgians don’t recognize illness as an excuse to abstain from partying. In fact, when I tried to leave his cousin’s birthday party the next evening (after having been there for the better part of 5 hours and starting to get double-vision from need for sleep), people were aghast that we would leave soon (and actually some did end up calling the next day, inviting us back over, having never left the table from the night before.

We finally got away for a while when we went up to the cabin in Buriani for some brief R&R. There, we harvested a small bundle of apples, pears and plums (most had already fallen to the ground and been taken over by smaller creatures). Also on the road to Buriani, we found blackberries and cherries to nibble on when the truck would overheat on the way.

Perhaps the best entertainment yet, however is the English radio station we listen to in the truck while traveling around the city. In addition to the same pre-recorded soundtrack of folk and blues music played every evening, it occasionally plays NPR. Imagine my surprise when we’re driving along the Mtkvare River in Tbilisi, just passing the statute of King David Aghmashenebeli and the ritzy Belux furniture store (where there’s a permanent “30%-50%” sign painted on the window whatever that means) and dodging cars driving every which way, paying no attention to the streetlights or traffic regulations, when a familiar voice reverberates over the radio waves telling a story about a fellow Lutheran man who confessed his deep secret sin of pre-marital sex: that being that when he was younger, he had kissed a girl and put his tongue in her mouth. Yes. Garrison made it all the way to Tbilisi to put a smile on my face in this otherwise quite non-Minnesotan world!

Today, Giorgi and I stopped by his parents’ house to pick up some jars (for the applesauce I made from the Buriani apples) when G’s phone rang at the same time his mother’s phone rang. Both were changes in plans. G’s phone was Gocha (his brother) asking for a ride to a job interview. Irina’s phone was her client to cancel their appointment that afternoon. So, in true Georgian fashion, the plans for the whole day changed in an instant, and in five minutes we had 3 women and me ready to go shopping for a wedding dress. G dropped us off in the heart of wedding dress stores and went to be a taxi for his brother. Irina, Ketino (Irina’s good friend) and Etico (Paata’s sister, G’s cousin and my friend) and I traipsed off into the heat to look for that illusive perfect wedding dress. Communication was hilarious, as none of the women spoke English very well, and my Georgian leaves something to be desired when speaking of nuances of wedding dresses. In addition, having 3 strong personalities along with my own who all have an idea about what would look best on me was a kick. Aside from a few near fainting spells (thanks to Georgian fashion being for slender bodies and tight corsets), we had a wonderful time. Not surprisingly, there was much discussion about and prodding at my bra area by everyone (including the staff), trying to figure out how to enhance my not-so voluptuous top half. All-in-all we settled on a list of our top 3 from the day’s events and will be heading out again soon to view more dresses next week. Tomorrow: Kazbek.

Impromptu Turkish Holiday

Well, we're back from Turkey and it was quite the experience! It started out with a grinning Turkish travel agent in Tbilisi who assured us that the only flight to Turkey before the date I would need to leave was the next morning (last Friday). I said I'd sooner drive across the border than stay in the room he was trying to peddle to me. I then selected a suitable room from the catalog photographs and said, "I'll go if you can get me this room." After making a few phone calls (in Turkish and Georgian), he told me the final price and assured me that we'd get the room for which I had bargained and assured me that if anything went wrong, anything at all, I should call immediately and he would fix it. What I don't know about Turkish travel agents is a lot.


We arrived at the hotel and were promptly given the room I had rejected at the agency the night before and then told that this was the only possible room. Also, no one spoke English so G, non-confrontational guy that he is, was stuck in the middle of my frustration about being cheated by the travel agent and the hotel thinking that we were complaining about the hotel. I finally had to sit down with the proprietor and explain that our frustration did not stem from thinking the hotel was sub-standard, but from the fact that a travel agent in Tbilisi took extra money from us to put us up in the nicer room. Every time we called the travel agent, he apologized profusely and said that he'd get us into the better room and call us back, but he only called our hotel and told them that we didn't like our room. We finally stopped calling and decided to make the best of our vacation.


The resort was quite beautiful, but Turkey was incredibly hot (around 100 degrees every day and never dipping below 75 at night). I made a mental note to self after this vacation: never take a holiday in the desert in August. At least in the northern hemisphere. We spent the first few days by the pool and the beach, keeping ourselves entertained with the hotel's snack hours and our books. However, we soon tired of pizza and finished our books (unfortunately neither of us liked the other's book, so reading a second book was out of the question for both of us). I had a wild card in my back pocket, however, and pulled out my pen and notebook to write my memories about the places I would rather be while G became more and more bored, which made for danger in the bar area. No, not from too much drink, but rather, from trying to learn bartender tricks from the Turkish bartenders who only spoke broken Russian. He only broke 2 bottles before I took him away.


On day 4, we finally had had enough lying around and rented a car to visit some sights in the Turkish countryside. We got going a bit late, so we missed the tours and finally found the destination after the sights had closed. That, of course, didn't stop us from craning our necks and taking pictures anyway. The first place we visited was "St. Nicholas Church" apparently named after the saint himself, who was born there. The irony of it continues to make me smile: capitalism's most useful saint ....... now nestled beneath Allah's all-watchful eye. We then sped off to the neighboring town (Myra), which had tombs carved into the high rock walls. For those of you who know my obsession with tombs, you'll understand that this was the reason we chose a trip to Myra. Unfortunately, access to the tombs had also closed for the day (which was probably good for Giorgi, as I could have wandered through them for hours), so we drove as close as we could to the mountain for some good pictures and found ourselves in the middle of a small farm with smiling waving children running or bicycling after us. A strange juxtaposition of new over old (farmers living under ancient tombs in the rock) and then even newer over that (us in our rental car getting lost in the farm).

Although we missed entry into the sights, we saw amazing landscapes, camels, the sunset over foreign waters, and goats goats goats! Giorgi wished for a sporty race car to take the hairpin curves of the coastal road, but alas, the Hundai couldn't perform as desired. It worked well for me, though, because I was actually able to see things out the windows (as opposed to when we were on the straight roads) and holler, "Look at THAT!" At which point, G would slam on the brakes, send loose gravel under the car flying and pull over into a widened shoulder for us to get out and take pictures. Such fun would have been lost for certain had we been on a tour bus!

The next day was more successful, as we found our destination before it closed for the day. We drove for 3 1/2 hours to a huge city called Denizli and after a few stops to ask where to go from there, found the smaller town called Penukkale. Penukkale has was can only be described as a volcano of fresh water spilling over a mountain of hardened white sand. The sand is like lava and in the newer eruptions, it is still sand. On older pieces of the mountain, the sand has dried into rippling rock in the hot sun and gives the illusion of being on an ice-capped mountain.

Not only was the white sand mountain an incredible place to explore with its ice-blue pools of fresh water cascading over basins made by the sand, but there was an ancient city in ruins at the top. We explored the theater and a few of the old roads, but had to leave after only a few hours with the 100+ degree sun beatingn down on us, so we cut our exploration short, vowing to visit some ruins in Tbilisi upon our return.

Back in the car for another 3 1/2 hour drive to return the rental car. We were only 2 hours late with it and so they didn't charge extra. A plus about the Turkish culture!

On day 6, we met a nice Georgian couple who had been at the resort for almost 2 weeks. The wife was dying to get out of the resort and see some of the sights but the husband was a bit skeptical. Eventually, we convinced them to come along to Antalya (the nearest city) for some exploring. We headed out to take the bus, but soon calculated that it would be the same price to rent a car again, so we trapsed back to the car rental place, where they gave us a car for 1/2 price and didn't even ask for G's passport this time. On the honor system after one go! We were off to Antalya, which turned out to be a reminiscent of New York City, but shorter (buildings) and smaller. Shopping was everywhere. We walked toward the water and found soem curvy little streets with rug vendors and overpriced Turkish souveneir shops everywhere. WE went into a mosque and bought little purses for next to nothing.

In the small windy streets of Antalya, G finally found his rhythm and entertained us all by haggling with vendors and even turning the tables on one in a gambling trick from his hoodlum days ... The vendor wanted to show G a "trick", asking him to get 1 Lire coin out of his pocket and betting that he could switch his own with G's in front of our eyes for the price of the lire. G, however, knew the "trick" and turned the tables on the vendor by grabbing both lire at the exact moment, much to the vendor's surprise. G then suggested that the lire were his to keep, but when when the vendor agreed, and suggested that he'd then take me instead, G was all chivalry and gave the lire back. G then gave the vendor a few pointers about how to do the trick correctly. The vendor, however, finally found a trick that G could not do. You'll have to veiw the photo for a full explaination.

We made the mistake of stopping back at the hotel for dinner (it was an all-includisve, so we figured we shoudl take advantage) and the tourist season must have begun that day. We had arrived 1/2 hour after the meal had started and by the time we walked into the building, the food was gone along with the plates and glasses. We were happy to be leaving the next day!

Back in the rental car, we drove to a small city south of our resort called Kemer, which ended up being a high-glitz, tourist town with miles of stores selling Dolce & Gabana knock-offs alongside Turkish souveneirs with Allah's eye swen or cemented into each one somewhere. Giorgi was haggling with all of the sales people to buy a small belly-dancing outfit for Tatuli and came upon one whose heritage was Georgian (this actually happened alot in Turkey, as it appears there are as many Georgians livin in Turkey (due to old wars and border seizures) as there are Georgians living in Georgia). When the shop-owner learned of G's heritage, he gave the dress for only 1 Lire over G's offer. A very good deal.

Being American in Turkey, however, was a different story. With warm smiles on their faces, shopkeepers would ask if I was English or German and one even asked if I was Norweigan. Not once did anyone ask if I was American. When I told them I was, a coolness would come over their interaction with me and they weren't as interested in making their sale. A strange experience but not alltogether surprising, considering.

To top off the trip as we began, we ran into some Georgians on our way back into the hotel that evening who mentioned that they were on our flight the next day and the flight time had been changed from noon to 10:40 a.m., so we needed to leave the hotel earlier than expected. It gets better. So we called the travel agent's counterpart in Turkey who was responsible for driving us to the airport to ask what time we needed to be ready in the lobby. She was in some sort of crisis and said that she would have to call us back with the exact time. She called back 20 minutes later, confirmed that the flight was now set for 10:40 and told us to be downstairs at 8:00 for the driver to take us to the airport. We set the alarm for 7:00 and as we were getting ready, the phone rang. It was 7:15 and the driver was downstairs, annoyed that we weren't there yet. He threatened to leave if we weren't downstairs in 5 minutes. Fortunately for the driver, I don't speak Turkish. G raced downstairs, but I still had much to pack, so I got ready as fast as I could and we were out the door at 7:30, missing breakfast and frazzled from being told one thing and then another. Par for the course, it seems.

We arrived more than 2 hours before the flight was to leave, so it is still unclear about the hurry that morning. We checked our bags through, bought some overpriced Turkish Delight candies for G's family and thought we might have some breakfast until seeing the airport restaraunt prices. As you can see from the photo, even Burger King was out of the question . Yes, the prices are in EUROS. Fortunately we had a couple of apples in our bag which tided us over unitl the flight, where you can still get a meal served free of charge on this side of the planet. We were happy to finally touch the ground in Tbilisi, and were not alone, as the entire plane clapped upon landing (which, I've learned in my many travels here, is what the Georgians do).

At the airport, it was wonderful to see G's parents waiting for us. They took us straight to their house (they're still not keen on the idea of us having our own apartment) and proceeded to start cooking and chatting as if we'd spend the night there. We finally had to hurt their feelings a little and let them know that we needed to go back to our own apartment, where we crashed for a good night's sleep in our own bed.

Never a dull moment...

Hello all! As some of you may know, I need to leave the country before 90 days is up for my stay here, otherwise deal with getting a visa for an extended stay. As you may have guessed, most of us foreigners choose to simply leave the country and come back for a new 90 day stay lest we suffer more of the wonderful bureaucracy that you've read a little bit about on the blog. In true Georgian fashion, we waited until the last minute to visit a travel agency yesterday to find out about flights to Turkey next week (I must be gone before the 27th), but came to learn that every flight into where we wanted to go was booked except for 2 last-minute cancelations on the 9:00 flight this morning. We took it and are headed out to Turkey for a week in the sun. This time, it will be a relaxing vacation! I may not be online for the week, but will hope to hear all of your news when I return ... thank you for reading!

Fun with Georgian Customs and in Batumi

Giorgi’s friend Giorgi dropped us off in Poti (port city where the Truck was waiting) on Monday morning at 8:30 on his way back to Tbilisi. Gocha (Giorgi’s brother) and Ruska (his wife) were already there waiting for us after having taken a night train. We ate some breakfast and hopped in a cab to the Shipping company office to pay tariffs on the truck. Feeling fresh, renewed and optimistic about how Georgia has changed, I shot pictures, greeted strangers and found good in all around. I was excited to document the ease with which we would now be able to get the truck and 4-wheeler out of the customs with Georgia being so close to entering the E.U. I should have known Georgia would not change that drastically in just one year.

After 2 hours of haggling with the shipping company about whether the 4-wheeler was actually a “vehicle” to be driven out of the terminal (we finally won that argument), we took a cab ride to the terminal (where the containers were waiting) where we needed to present our I.D.’s to have papers drawn up to let us enter the terminal. As a U.S. citizen, I was under the impression that this was an easy task: show your I.D. to prove that you are the same as the person on the paperwork, and get a pass. In Poti, however, it’s a different story. The “office” is a trailer with a wall in the middle with workers on one side and people wishing to gain access on the other. The wall has 2 windows on either side of a door. I stood in “line” (I use this term loosely) with G for a while until I couldn’t handle the large naked sweaty cigarette-smoking men pushing and shoving me to get to the window in front of the other people who were waiting, namely, G. Chivalry does not thrive here. I decided I would be better off waiting in the back with Gocha and Ruska. After about 1 hour of G standing at the window to assure the workers that we were who we said we were, we obtained passes to enter the terminal.

On the other side was another trailer, but this one had some air-conditioned rooms (I think it was a deluxe model trailer). In that trailer, G had to pay the shipyard for holding the container and had to obtain stamps (2 on every page of his paperwork) to prove something, I’m not quite sure what at this point. Gocha, Ruska and I patiently waited outside the air-conditioned trailer, deciding that personal hygiene and autonomy were more important than sweaty naked men, even if there was air-conditioning.

When Giorgi finally obtained all of the stamps and paperwork from this trailer, we were off to find the workers in the actual shipyard. We found the “worker station”, but they were all gone assisting other people. So we waited. Again. This time only for about 30 minutes. When they finally arrived, we were thrilled that it didn’t take very long. The honeymoon stage, however, was soon over, because our truck was in the back of the container and two cars needed to be extracted before they could get to ours.

There were approximately 5 young men “working” at our container. I was unclear about what their job really was, as they spent most of the time standing around watching. The container opened quite easily (they had this job figured out). However, once inside, we found the front car suspended with ropes and an elaborate wooden frame nailed into the floor and except for two guys walking around with a portable car battery and jumper cables, no one had any tools. There is a surreal experience in Georgia that comes from not being able to tell how many people were just with you and whether or not someone has gone for help, or if we’re all just standing around waiting for someone else to do something. Part of the confusion likely stems from the fact that during said “standing around” time, we had accumulated about 10 more guys who decided to stop and watch the event. After about 10 minutes, I couldn’t take it any longer and insisted that G ask what everyone was waiting for. We finally learned that they couldn’t figure out how to get the ropes undone (creative and interactive problem-solving is not a forte in this country). I finally suggested that G offer to cut the ropes with the knife he had on his belt. Everyone seemed quite pleased that G had a knife for this purpose.

In addition to using G’s knife, many men were in need of a pen (I believe I was the only person inside the shipyard with this small gem), and various and sundry other tools like hammers. Apparently “working” for the terminal did not mean that these people actually received any tools for doing the job, nor did it entail physical labor. That was up to the people actually paying for their services.

By 1:00 in the afternoon, one of the workers found some pieces of wood and some old rusty nails (from the container) and spent approximately 45 minutes making a ramp for the car to come off the container. The first car wouldn’t move because it had its parking brake on. And, of course, the owner was nowhere to be found at that point, likely having gone off to find some shade. When he finally came back, he opened the care and released the parking brake, bringing it off the container soon thereafter. The second car and the truck (the two vehicles sitting on the ground) had completely flat tires. Getting the second car off of the container was a trick because, in addition to having flat tires, it had a smashed wheel rim, so driving straight was out of the question. Its wheel got jammed between the container door and the small ramp that one of the workers had built for it (out of earlier said rusty nails and pieces of wood), so the next half hour was spent trying to free the nose of the car without damaging it any more. This time, they were not standing around and scratching their heads (which I had learned from my earlier experience is notice of a problem that needs solving), but were actively trying exactly the same moves to try to achieve a different result. Again, I got a little hot under the collar and insisted that Giorgi suggest that use a tow rope to haul the nose of this car into a straight position. It eventually worked once we found a rope (one of the ropes cut from the trailer earlier).

Giorgi then decided to head to another office to take care of paperwork for a temporary title while his brother tried to get the truck out of the container. Gocha had already been at this other office for the past 2 hours, holding a place in line. After pounding rusty nails down into the floor from the frame built for the other two cars, we were ready to take the truck out. It had a little trouble because the tires were so flat that the wheels were skidding on the rubber. I was actually amazed that the tires didn’t fall completely off the wheels. We finally got it off without much trouble, but we desperately needed air for the tires. Unfortunately, no one was walking around with a portable air compressor, so we had to drive it to the place where we had waited for the workmen (there was an air compressor there) and wait in line for air.

Giorgi was gone for about an hour trying to deal with more troubles caused by shipping a 4-wheeler (whether a temporary title was needed). While Gocha was waiting in line for air, people began haggling over who was there first. Gocha had to jack up the truck and take the wheels off one by one to fill them with air and people thought that every time he finally got another wheel off, he should be at the end of the line again. Never mind. All par for the course. Around 3:00, Giorgi returned from paying insurance for the truck to carry a load (more on this fiasco later) and Gocha was still trying to fill air in the tires. It got exciting when he grabbed an old plastic coke bottle and filled it with gasoline to pour between the tire rim and the tire and lit it on fire to suck the tire into place. That was probably the second most exciting moment of the day for me, fire fan that I am. The first most exciting moment of the day was just a few minute earlier when we found the Gatorade that Giorgi had tossed into the truck at the last minute before sending it away in the U.S. Gatorade has never tasted so good on a 99 degree day. Perhaps I should write them a letter of appreciation!

While Gocha was dealing with the tires, I busied myself cleaning the mold off of the upholstery of the truck (I feared for my food products, but they made it through the battle with flying colors). With air in the tires, we believed that we now only had to get a temporary title for the truck and be done. But wait - there was more fun to be had! When dealing with the temporary paperwork for the truck title, someone noticed that the 4-wheeler had been entered on the paper as a motorcycle. Someone somewhere must have thought, “This won’t be my problem, so I’ll just put a common word like ‘motorcycle’ into this blank space here where it asks me to identify other cargo.” That problem then became ours.

Fortunately, we had befriended someone who “worked” at the shipyard (actually he had clearances to drive in and out without being checked, so he “helped” us carry out many of our boxes while the truck with the 4-wheeler waited to get out). I find it odd that the people working there were more concerned with what was obviously a mistake in the paperwork (it was not a motorcycle) to what obviously smelled fishy (according to the paperwork, there were 12 boxes in the truck, but it was empty when they finally let it go). After driving around (in our new friend’s car) to many different offices outside the terminal, I decided that Ruska and I had had enough. I asked them to take us to a restaurant (we hadn’t eaten since our breakfast that morning and it was now 4:30) so that at least we girls could relax and get some nourishment. Fortunately, the men agreed and took us to a nice restaurant overlooking the river and we sat and ate and talked for another hour and a half before the guys showed up.

The fun didn’t end so soon for Giorgi & Gocha. Once back at the terminal, they spent another half an hour getting the paperwork fixed so that it identified the 4-wheeler as a 4-wheeler and not a motorcycle, but then Customs informed them they would not allow the 4-wheeler to be taken out on the bed of a pick-up truck. Apparently the pick-up truck needed a solid cover. A tarp wouldn’t do. I have no idea why. So finally, after more haggling, they left the 4 wheeler with the customs personnel and drove an empty pick-up out of the terminal. They finally arrived at the restaurant around 6:30 p.m. They’d have to go back the next day (apparently they could pick it up with the truck the next day, but couldn’t drive it out with the truck that day. Again, asking “why” here is an exercise in futility).

Giorgi and Gocha and our new “friend” ate a good meal when they finally arrived and then we all drove the truck back to our friend’s house, where we had dropped off the boxes full of my kitchen supplies on our trips back and forth in his car. We headed back to Giorgi’s-friend-Giorgi’s-wife’s-cousin’s house in Kobuleti to spend the night and unloaded all of the boxes to store there until we could get the 4-wheeler out of hoc the next day.

The next day, we slept in a little and Giorgi and Gocha headed out around 10:00. They thought it would only take about 3 hours, but it took about 6. When they arrived at the terminal on this day, the customs agents informed them that paperwork identified the 4-wheeler as weighing 1,000 kilos (even though it was obvious that it did not). Never mind the obvious, the paperwork said what the paperwork said and although they easily could have guessed at the weight, they decided to demand a faxed correction from Tbilisi informing them otherwise. So Giorgi and Gocha spent two hours trying to reach people in Tbilisi to fax a weight correction for the 4-wheeler. They finally received that fax around 1:00, but, alas, everyone at the customs department was then on their lunch break. Finally, when the customs workers returned at 3:30, Giorgi & Gocha were able to present their fax that stated the obvious and take the 4-wheeler home.

We then decided to spend one more night on the Black Sea, since it was too late to start back to Tbilisi, and drove into Batumi for dinner. We should have known the evening might work like the day had unfolded. Giorgi and I had been to his friend’s restaurant/nightclub (called “Saga”) in Batumi the night before with the other Giorgi and his cousin. We ate a wonderful meal with their owner-friend and received amazing service. Unfortunately, when we arrived with Gocha and Ruska, Giorgi’s friend (the owner) was not there and they were “out” of almost every item on the menu. When we finally found items on the menu to order, it took over an hour to get our food and when we did, it was terrible and some of the items we ordered were not delivered to the table as ordered. We asked for doggie bags (since they had brought us two of some things which we had ordered only one of and insisted on charging us for them), and they had none. Giorgi was so annoyed at the experience that he insisted on taking home the pizza on the wooden serving platter. I now have it in my kitchen as a memento to the fun times had with customs and in Batumi on our eventful trip to the Black Sea.

The Black Sea

We originally asked for a train to Batumi (a resort town just south of Kobuleti), but they were sold out, so we purchased tickets to Kobuleti for the next day. While at the train station and per my intense request, Giorgi made certain that our train would have air conditioning, to which the girl in the window assured him that all of their trains have air conditioning, so there was no possibility that it would not. G purchased the tickets.

Another experience with Georgian promises. It seems that “air conditioning” is used a bit liberally or perhaps has a broader meaning at the Tbilisi train station than it does in my vocabulary because we rode on what was likely an old soviet train where the tops of the windows opened and a vendor walked up and down the aisles selling marao (hand held fans) for 1 GEL (about 60 cents). We bought one. My air conditioner.

We needed to get something to eat before leaving the station. Eating “out” in Georgia is not unlike eating “out” at the Minnesota State Fair. At the food stands, your choices are: khachapuri (which many of you already know is fried bread filled with cheese) (there are about 8 different kinds), nazuki (dough baked with sugar inside), lobiani (dough fried with red beans inside), Vezeli (dough deep fried with sugary cream cheese inside), or many different kinds of meat-filled dough items for which I don’t know the names. People with wheat allergies must get puffy just walking down the street here.

Setting aside the fact that it was sweltering hot and my choices for nourishment all day consisted of baked, fried or deep fried dough, the train ride was quite beautiful. The landscape changed to lush vegetation and beautiful green hills as we rode out of Eastern Georgia. Most of the towns were essentially the same in look at feel as we passed through, but as we traveled further and further west, we noticed less cars and more bicycles. When we were deep into the west, I found horse country. There were fields of horses grazing and running. I was in heaven.

When we finally arrived in Kobuleti, Giorgi’s good friend (also Giorgi) picked us up at the train station and took us back to his wife’s family’s home there. Kobuleti is a little bit like Mazatlan was 20 years ago. A town that will soon be a very fancy beach resort, but for now, still maintains some of the charm of working-class ownership. Giorgi’s wife was not there, but her cousins were. When we arrived, the cousins had prepared much of the meal, but no one knew how to make Hinkale, so those ingredients were laying in wait for someone to rescue them. Ironically, although there were 3 Georgian girls (25-35 years old) there, the American (me) was the only one who knew how to make this traditional Georgian dish. It was a story the guys enjoyed telling.

Later in the evening, G and I went for a walk to the beach and found many night clubs along a boardwalk at the top of the beach. Most were pretty boring and had twenty-somethings dancing uncomplicated moves so as not to appear un-cool among other twenty-somethings, but we could hear traditional Gerogian dance music faintly playing somewhere in our vicinity, so we started to walk in its direction. Right next to a flashing neon blue light dance club with more of said twenty-somethings, we found our destination: a German beer garden with Georgian dance music and a couple who must have been professional dancers spinning around the dance floor. It was fantastic to watch.

We slept poorly and I finally had to get up around 5:30 when the roosters were making too much noise for any sane person to rest. This, of course, was after already waking up when the cousins came home from dancing the night away around 4:30 a.m. G really didn’t want to wake up but, worry-wart that he is, he refused to let me go out alone so early in the morning (or late at night, as the case may be). We finally got out of the house around 6:30, so I could go to the sea. Much to G’s surprise, we were not the only people on the beach (he had informed me earlier that no self-respecting person wakes up at such an hour) … there were other crazy people like me up and sitting by the water even though the sun would not peek over the horizon for another hour or so. But it wasn’t enough for me. I couldn’t stand it. I’m from Minnesota. I had to go in the water. It was warm and wonderful. I even got G to push back his fear for a few minutes and come in with me.

Once everyone else woke up, Giorgi’s friend Giorgi informed us that he had clients in Batumi (he’s a lawyer), who wanted to take us out on their fishing boat. He went ahead to discuss some things with them and G and I headed out a bit later for a 20-minute bus ride down the coast. Only once before in my life have I felt like I was in such a beautiful place. When I was in the cloud forest of Costa Rica. The hills just south of Kobuleti are lush with vegetation, so green and beautiful. Tiered orchards and vineyards look like ripples of water cascading down the hills.

Outside Tbilisi, it’s impossible to drive more than half a mile without seeing at least a few cows grazing along the road or meandering across the road. In Tbilisi or any other major city, the cows are less: you could drive up to one mile before seeing cows grazing along the road. Some cows even like to nap in the road, so driving is always an adventure, especially in the countryside.

Once in Batumi, we purchased the necessary provisions for our fishing expedition (chips, peanuts, ice cream and Fanta) and boarded “Cristina” (spelled with no “h”) for our Batumi adventure. The “boat guys” decided to take us out to sea for some “inner-tubing”. I was excited to jump in the water and join the fun until I saw that the “inner-tube” they were using was one of those lifesaver donuts and plowed through the water rather than skipping along on top. Giorgi (not mine) and his wife’s cousin Auto gave it a try. They were good sports despite the huge welts they got on the inside of their arms from hanging onto their lifesavers for dear life. I was glad not to have been the first to volunteer. When that fun was over, we finally anchored near a beautiful lagoon where I could finally get into the water and go for a swim. Again, Minnesota girl. Before jumping in, everyone but me and one of the fishermen donned bright orange life vests. I dove in head first and swam around for an hour feeling like a caged animal let loose at last. Giorgi (mine) felt brave and wanted to join the fun, so he donned an orange life vest and jumped feet-first off the edge of the boat (which sat about 5 feet above the water). However, the burst of bravery soon fled and mid-air, he regained sanity, regretting the leap. He hugged the side of the boat as soon as he reached the water and we had to bring 2 lifesavers to have on either arm so he could float away from the boat for a little while. To the laughing Georgians, he had to joke that the only good thing about his experience at that moment was the he would be dying in Georgia. He stayed in for a long time being a good sport in spite of his fear.

When we got out of the water, we went up to the top of the boat to sit in the sun and dry off. There, we talked to one of the fishermen and learned that there is only one Georgian barge left in the Sea (after communism fell, they were looted and sold) and now Turkish barges to big business in Georgia, often taking Georgian materials like scrap metal from Batumi to Shanghai for recycling and then back to Batumi where they sell recycled products back to Georgians for profit.

After our nice swim and nice ride, the inevitable came to pass. We dropped the nets, trolling the water for 45 minutes. Originally, I felt pity and guilt for the fish that must have been snared, but maintaining such a feeling for 45 minutes must be reserved for heartier martyrs than I. It was difficult to sustain such sadness sitting in the bright sun. I found my energy for such things waning with the tumbling of the fish themselves. It felt as if my soul was tumbling over and over in a washing cycle or as if I were caught by a crocodile and rolled until stunned and gave up. Like being hypnotized into ambivalence. I wondered if the fish were too.

I got a little too much sun out on the sea and we tried to buy some aloe cream to no avail. The stores at this huge beach resort don’t sell after-sun cream. Only Matsoni. Georgian yogurt. From the refrigerator section. So we got it and I proceeded to rub yogurt all over my shins for the next few days. It actually worked quite well. The burn was painful, but the cool feeling of the yogurt rubbing on was a relief. They still hurt today (almost a week later), but they haven’t peeled or blistered thanks to Matsoni.

A Day in the Life

I wake up around 7 and think about what needs to get done that day. More likely than not, it will consist of household supply shopping, for which I'm not yet fully equipped. I wait for G to wake up and we have a nice breakfast and get ready to start our day. I say something like, "I need to go to the grocery store today" (which is a 20 minute drive outside the city). Usually soon thereafter (or before), the phone will ring and it's someone in G's family asking him to do something right now. Yesterday, it was G's dad asking G to come over so that they can "discuss some things". While I'm doing the dishes and taking a shower, G goes to find out what's going on with his father. About 45 minutes later, G comes home and says we should be on our way. I ask about what his father wanted and he tells me that his father has done some research on putting a $600 natural fuel tank into the truck, found an ad in the paper from someone who might want to buy G's Subaru, and wondered when G would be able to give him a car. G has 3 cars here: 2 are in the shop and one works. Sort of. G's dad has been in town for a few days waiting for one of the cars in the shop to get fixed. G promised him that he would have a car that afternoon. So, on the way to the grocery store, we need to stop at the mechanic's to pick up a car. We get to the mechanic shop, check the engine with the mechanic, put the license plates on, pay the mechanic and about 20 minutes later, are on the way to the grocery store, where we spend a considerable amount of time trying (often to no avail) to find the exotic foods on my list like ginger and molasses.

With most but not all of my food, we head back home caravan-style. As we're driving up G's parents' street (our house is 3 blocks past theirs on a one-way street), we see G's dad waiting and watching for us. He's likely been sitting there since G left, or approximately 15 minutes after G left, thinking that G was just going to pick up the car and bring it to him. It is not unlikely that G forgot to tell him that we would also be going to the grocery store. Soso (the nickname for Joseph) is shocked to see that I'm driving a car. We stop, get out, say that we have groceries in the back and will be back with the car for him to take to the village. We go home, drop off the groceries and then spend an hour trying to decide which car we should give to G's dad because there's a new dilemma: we need to sell the Subaru, and the CarMart happens the next day (Saturday), so we really shouldn't give him the Subaru. But G wants to take the truck and 4-wheeler to Buriani (we haven't been there for ~1 month). But G's dad won't be back until Wednesday. We're stuck. We really need to keep the truck and sell the Subaru, but this doesn’t work here because G’s dad needs a car and there’s no guarantee that we’ll sell one. So we give G’s dad the truck and keep the Subaru to sell the next day.

Later in the evening, we decide that it would be a good idea to have G’s dad bring back a much-needed wardrobe for us (we still have no place to hang our clothes) that we’ve been waiting to pick up from the village with the truck. We call to make that request and when G's mom hears this, she decides that we should not have the wardrobe in the village and that we should have the one in her house. I like the one in the village, but G's mom's input rarely goes un-obeyed. And she has input into everything. I found the limit to my patience here, though, when she argued with me about which direction I should want the stripes on my curtains. Unfortunately, the wardrobe “suggestion” came after the truck was gone, or we could have used the truck to bring the Tbilisi wardrobe back to the house before it went to the village so I could finish moving my clothes into the apartment. By this time, it’s about 9:00 at night and I feel exhausted and as though nothing got accomplished in the day.

It’s now Saturday at about 1:00 p.m. and G just called to say that he sold the Subaru. Now we have no car because the truck is in the village. G now must call his father to have him bring back the truck.

Beginning of August...

The weather remains hot and there is not much new to tell. I did a little cooking yesterday and felt like I was getting my feet back under me after slipping and sliding for a few days. Applesauce, the quintessential comfort food, especially when eaten warm! I also read through my cookbooks (great foresight on my part to ship them over if I do say so myself!) and dreamed of the day when we get a car again (we had to sell the one working vehicle that we had in order to pay mechanic's bills on the two in the shop and customs on the one on it's way) so that I can go to the grocery store and get the right ingredients to cook something wonderful.

Last night, we went out with new friends (also an international couple): Nagila (from Brazil) and Don (from Washington State) to our favorite jazz club, Café Kala. We had hoped to hear Nagila's favorite jazz singer, but she never showed. We enjoyed the evening anyway and felt good about filling a stray kitten's tummy with chicken and bread until it lay down at our feet and slept.

Giorgi and I will go to the Black Sea (Kobuleti) by train this afternoon where I am hoping to get a mini-vacation from the heat and stress of the big city. We will then drive home to Tbilisi in the big red truck (which should arrive in Poti on Monday). Wish us luck!

We finally moved into our new apartment! Time has been spent shopping at the fabric market and other markets around town to buy essentials for the new house. The weather feels like it's about 100 degrees every day, so refuge is found in my internet coffee shop where the a/c is good. I finally splurged the other day and pulled out the credit card to purchase an air conditioner for the aprtment and if all goes as planned, we will have it installed today.

I've added some new pictures for your viewing pleasure and will post more stories tomorrow when I get a bit more time. We're off to pick up some pictures that we've developed for the people in the village. Something many of them have never had...

Thank you for all of your comments! Keep them coming!

Telephones

Last year, we had a fiasco with the phone company where we were told that we couldn't speak to anyone in person (although we had driven to the company and walked into the offices) but had to walk around the outside of a building in order to pick up a dial-less phone and wait for someone to answer the other end of the line. This year, Giorgi went to the phone company about 1 month ago to activate the phone line for our new apartment (we would use the old number), but they told him that it would not be possible to activate a phone line on our street until they re-configure all phone lines on our street and they really didn't know when that would happen. G came home that day with the news that we might not have a home phone.

We decided to try again, this time with me along for the ride and to explain that as an American living and working in Tbilisi, I really need a phone line becasue I really need the internet to work. We were ready to face the wall that we anticipated we would meet, but as luck would have it, as we were walking in, we met the old neighbor of Giorgi's childhood friend walking out. This neighbor just happened to work for the phone company and when we explained what had happened a month ago to Giorgi, he walked us in, past lines of frustrated people into a back office, where we explained that we needed a phone and a woman checked to make sure the number had not been given away (which it had not) and then wrote down our information on a scrap of paper (which made me a little nervous, but I held my tongue) and said that someone would call us within 24 hours to set up the phone. We thanked her and left. Later that same day, we got a call that someone would be out to hook up the line the next day! Thankfully, the information on the scrap of paper made its way to the right people and we now have a home phone!