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.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
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!
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, August 13, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
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!
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!
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
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!
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!
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