I Have No Idea What's Going On...

          Sakartvelo, my fickle mistress. Some days you make me want to rip my hair out in frustration, other days I love you beyond measure. Beautiful Sakartvelo, I have only known you for a short while but I already feel my heart irrevocably merging with your rocky crags, your warm people, and your bustling cities. You have taught me so much in such a short time my volatile Sakartvelo. So how did I come to know you; how did I get so lucky? Fate, my love? I think maybe. 

Part 1 - In Which Caitlin Ventures Into the World and Makes a Friend or Two

           Everything was set in motion when I got the call confirming that my arrival date in Tbilisi, Georgia would be August 10. I got said call in the last few days of July and up until then, I hadn’t fully committed to leaving. My application process was streamlined, I went through a recruiting agency (Footprints Recruiting specifically) and they made everything easy. They gave me a format and I filled in the blanks. My representative’s name was Sten and he was nothing if not wonderful. Sten called me at least once a week to ask me how everything was going and if I needed any help with my application. It was so easy that part of me believed that it was too good to be true. It can’t really be that easy to hop the country and live abroad for an extended period of time with no expenses, can it? My original arrival date was August 20th but it was cancelled; I was informed that I could leave August 10th or August 30th. My instant response,

           "August 10th. I’m ready to go; the sooner the better."

Saying this was unexpectedly cathartic and I saw it as a verbal contract between myself and the coordinators of Teach and Learn with Georgia. Everything was sealed in my mind and I committed myself fully. My landlord/roommate found someone to take my room, I put in my notice at my job, and I started saying my goodbyes.

           The weekend before I left was hectic; I foolishly chose not to do any packing until the last minute. Thankfully, I have a very patient mother who rented a car to come to Missoula and help me pack. Packing to accommodate for a major shift in my life is no easy task and I was beyond grateful for the help. Everything went into one of 3 piles: storage, pack, or junk. I threw away more things than I knew I had. Getting rid of all the junk I accumulated was a rigorous but cleansing experience and it helped to prepare me mentally for the journey ahead. Somehow, my mother and I managed to sort through everything in the small amount of time I had left us to do so. Procrastination: my forever friend.

           Only two days before I was scheduled to arrive in Tbilisi, I received the final phone call. Sten was happy to inform me that my plane ticket had been sent to my e-mail and I would be flying out of the Helena airport August 10th at 5:45 AM. I found it odd that my flight was out of Helena; the Missoula airport is international and it was the one I had listed as my first choice. Regardless, all the stars and planets had aligned; I was headed to the Republic of Georgia.

          The night before I left I didn’t, I couldn't sleep. I had to be up at 3 in the morning anyway so I called one of the best. Devon mused with me about my upcoming adventure the long night through and helped to ease my clouded psyche. He was quick to respond positively every time I expressed that I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m sure I was getting frustratingly repetitive but Devon stayed with me the whole way. All too soon, the night came to an end; it was time to venture to the airport. My mother and two of my best friends, Liam and Chelsea, saw me off that morning. Everyone’s eyes were dry as we exchanged kisses and the airport security patiently shuffled my uncertain self through my first inspection. I smiled and thanked everyone who helped me find my way onto my first plane. I felt as if my journey was no longer in my hands. I merely propelled myself in the direction of the pointed fingers.

           My path was from Helena to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to New York, New York to Istanbul, and Istanbul to Tbilisi. My layovers were reasonable, I was never waiting more than a few hours, and my flights were uneventful. I slept through most of them; even when I wanted to stay awake I found it difficult. The movement of the plane and the white noise were my perfect lullaby. One thing that did stick out to me: more of the employees at the Istanbul airport spoke English than at the one in New York... Or maybe I just got lucky.

           Arriving in Tbilisi was when I started having the adventure worth writing home about. I already mentioned my apprehension at getting into the car with the TLG representative; what was really interesting was the car ride to the hotel. I learned very quickly that the lines painted on the road to suggest the existence of lanes were not regarded as a boundary. If there’s space between two cars, it’s fair game. Georgian drivers are aggressive and don’t seem to believe in any amount of healthy distance between vehicles... or seat belts for that matter. I haven’t worn a seat belt since I got here, not for lack of trying. None of the cars still have seat belts and on the rare occasion that they do, the driver will yell and gesticulate (good-naturedly of course) that you don’t need it. I would beg to differ but I don’t want to offend anyone by implying that I don't trust they are capable drivers. Despite how terrifying the experience is initially, I've found that most of the drivers are more than capable, perhaps more so than those at home. True, the rules of the road here are really just fuzzy suggestions but Georgian drivers have shorter reaction times. There are cows, dogs, and pedestrians everywhere so the drivers here are always prepared for anything. I would say that’s a fair bit safer than the American driver’s sense of entitlement.

           "The open road! Just me and my car! The world is mine!"

This is usually followed up by the screeching of tires and broken animals or property... Additionally, Georgian drivers never hesitate. If they’re squeezing between two semis you had better believe they’re doing it with conviction. Anyone who’s ever driven, in the states at least, has encountered an insecure driver. They are terrifyingly unpredictable. In Georgia, every driver’s intentions are as clear as Borjomi mineral water.

           I made it to the hotel, gripping the “Oh Jesus” handle the whole way. My driver left without saying much (I wouldn’t have understood him anyway). I yelled a quick thank you after him before surveying the room and the interesting person who reposed inside...

           Ashley welcomed me warmly, eager to find out who I was and how I came to be there. I was happy to finally stop moving and fell into the tiny hotel bed, giving Ashley the short answer to every question despite my best efforts to be social. I was informed that the Bazaleti palace served dinner in 3 hours so I made good use of that little box spring. I woke up upon Ashley’s return from dinner, decided I was hungry and made my way up to the dining room. The food was laid out in a buffet like fashion, most of the items familiar and thoroughly picked over. I ate bread, cheese, cucumbers, and tomatoes all the while musing over the odd selection. If only I knew...

          It was at dinner that I met one of the employees at the hotel: “Giorgi, the light of the Bazaleti.” I didn’t understand anything he said to me during our first exchange; something about having water in my room. I nodded in agreement to whatever he was asking me and fled the dining room as soon as his back was turned. Safely locked in my room, I emailed home to hint to far away friends that I may be in trouble. My fear of communication was unwarranted of course, especially with Giorgi. He proved to be a wonderful introduction to Georgians for our entire group. He and his addictive laugh and the conspiratorial way he offered us sazamtro (watermelon) when no one was looking is remembered fondly by all.

          I slept moderately well that night, unaware that I was the first American in our training group to arrive. The rest slipped in in the dead of night while Ashley and I slept.

         The next morning heralded new vigor in me. I happily washed away the 29 hours of planes and airports and braved the dining room again, this time accompanied by my classy Ashley. The first thing I noticed was the plethora of very non-Georgian faces filling the room. This was training group #23 and I couldn’t have been happier to see them. In alphabetical order (because how else could I possibly?) they are as follows:

         Adam (AKA “Pants Man”) - Our lonely Australian, Adam is a rugged adventurer, consistently putting his open heart and mind to good use. He is a connoisseur of the unknown and absolutely fearless in the presence of a beautiful girl.

         Anna (Alias TBD) - Sweet and patient, Anna from New Zealand is a pleasure to be around. With her positive and naturally friendly temperament, Anna is perfect for teaching and a good friend to have. 

         Anna Maria (Alias TBD) - Germany sent this gentle and soft-spoken sweetheart our way. Anna Maria is married to a Georgian man which put her on the path to teaching German with TLG. Her soft laugh always warms the heart. 

         Ashley (AKA “Classy Ashley”) - A sassy lady from Canada, Ashley is always dressed to the nines and has the brains to match. The poster child for cool confidence, she can always be relied on in a professional setting and for some amazing girl talk.

         Caitlin (Alias TBD) - This Montana girl can be shy... at first. She can justify just about anything to herself, even blogging, which she calls “onanistic.” Caitlin loves swapping stories, poems, and the third person.

         Eric (Alias TBD) - A genuinely nice guy, this New Zealander radiates warm energy, attracting those around him to his light. Eric is best described as enthusiastic and fearless, an all around happy fellow.

         Greg (AKA “Wolfie”) - Hungry for experience and life in general, Greg joined us from California to satisfy his cravings. He is what anyone might expect LA to look like, but that only covers the bark. The bite is potent with intelligence and romance.

         Irene (AKA The Oracle) - Spiritual with swagger, this unexpected gypsy hails from Detroit, Michigan. Irene is usually decorated in some manner of eye-catching or musical trinket. Colorful and delightfully crazy, Irene is always willing to discuss the power of the universe.

         Jacob (AKA “Yahkob the Bohemian”) - This snappy chappy completes our trifecta of Kiwis with a bang! Jacob is always smiling, infecting those lucky enough to be around him with his joy. Always supportive, always wonderful, he is a reminder to be happy and to share my talents without fear.

         Jennifer (AKA “Blossom Dearie”) - This sassy Brit and I bonded over musicals and the songs therein, specifically “Tea for Two.” Seemingly soft spoken and polite, the listener really has to pay attention to what Jennifer’s saying to really pick up on the sassy quips that riddle her verbage. It’s well worth the effort because this lady has rib-tickling cheek.

         Justina (Alias TBD) - Sweeter than sweet tea, Justina from Alabama has a dangerous brazen streak that runs deep. Self assured, this gal is a pleasure to sass and will shoot it right back.

         Mark (Alias TBD) - A frightfully facetious and witty Floridian, Mark is a lover of literature and transliteration. A master of his craft, words are his weapons and he wields them expertly; in duels he has proven to be a practiced and worthy opponent. Mark is excellent company and a riveting conversationalist.

         Martin (AKA “The Doctor”) - Zany! That’s the best word to describe this Wise Man from Britain. Martin always has advice or a story handy and his particular style of web weaving is a true delight.

         Melissa (Alias TBD) - This gal comes from the wild west, Wyoming specifically, and has the stories to prove it. She once rode a horse to school to test that old urban legend that the school will put up your horse with food and lodging if you do so. (Apparently they won’t.) Melissa also spent a fair bit of time teaching in South Korea.

         Ren (AKA “Rawdoggin’ Ren”) - A Louisiana firecracker and Hurricane Katrina survivor, Ren is the definition of a powerhouse. Fearless with just the right amount of crazy, Ren has led me on some absurdly romantic adventures since we met. From riding horses bareback to hitching rides from semis in the pouring rain, there is never a shortage of story worthy experiences. In short, this bitch has seen some shit. 

         Rob (AKA “Papa Bear”) - A comforting Coloradan who’s demeanor faithfully reflects the Rocky Mountains. Rob is an educated gentleman with a sweet sense of humor, what we would refer to as a “good ol’ boy” back in Montana. His beard reminds me of home.

         Simon (AKA “Magellan”) - The perfect English gentleman with a hidden dark side. Simon isn’t afraid to venture out on his own and can find anything with little direction. A dry wit, it’s hard to tell when he’s telling a joke or being serious but either way, he’s always making me laugh.

All in all, a wonderful group. This girl could not have asked for a better bunch of people.

          The rest of the week is a bit of a blur. Our training coordinator, Tamara and her assistant, Tiko took us on a walking tour of Tbilisi and Tiko taught us our first phrase in Georgian,

          “Erti ludi tu sheidzleba!” (One beer please!)

Armed with our newly learned phrase we spent the night at the hotel bar with Giorgi who got a good laugh out of our pronunciation and formality.

          Orientation. Every day started with 4 hours of lessons in Georgian. These proved to be invaluable later and also not nearly enough. We learned the Georgian alphabet, how to introduce ourselves, how to check prices, how to tell where we’re from, various vocabulary, even a little bit of conjugation and grammar. For the first half of the week the second part of the day was cross culture training. The four steps of culture shock and what to expect in a Georgian household. Patriarchal society, women cook and clean, men are the breadwinners, if you are dating someone it is expected that you get married, women expected to be virgins until marriage, men expected to have experience, expected to have children immediately after marriage, religion - orthodox christianity, wine, etc. etc. etc.

           Second half of the week, classes were the methodology of teaching. We learned a few games to play with our students here as well as a few tips on how to teach out of the book. Having never taught in a formal setting before I had high hopes for this class to prepare me for students. I did not get quite what I wished for. As the title of this post suggests, I had no idea what was going on.

           What I remember of orientation is long days, wonderful nights of photos, touring the fortress, and getting to know Group 23. There were delicious (and expensive) restaurants, the tasting of Khinkali and Khachapuri for the first time. Natakhtari ludi was our staple - discovery. Eric was eager to point out how much the Khinkali resembles a scrotum. The night we went to the fortress we exchanged dating horror stories cementing our bond.

          Last night of our week together started with dinner and ended with a jam session. My little ukulele sounds so much better with Papa Bear’s guitar adding some oomph. 

Part 2 - In Which the Little Birdies Are Flung From the Nest

          Next morning, all eyes were dry as we said goodbye. We were being scattered across this small country. Everything was uncertain. I was slowly weaned of the group as I traveled to Ozurgeti with Adam and Simon. Our directors, or principals had come to pick us up together being in nearby regions. My director is a woman who terrifies my fellow teachers and the students. She is always dressed in a skirt or dress(usually animal print) and very high, thin heels. Impractical enough by themselves, you can imagine the kind of person who wears these on dirt roads riddled with cow dung. Actually, she reminds me of my Spanish grandmother. Our long marshrutka ride west was fairly uneventful at first. I tried (unsuccessfully) to sleep, we three wanderers chatted a bit. We stopped to eat after a couple hours or so and that’s when shit went down. 

           This was the first time I encountered a Turkish toilet. I spent my first week in Georgia at the hotel where the toilets were Western, a familiar porcelain bowl; certainly not something I thought of as a luxury. Don’t misunderstand me, I was aware that not all of the houses were going to have indoor plumbing. This had been made known and yet, I hadn’t really considered what that meant as far as waste disposal is concerned. When my mother moved to Montana and remarried, my sister Ainsley and I in tow, we lived in a one bedroom house that didn’t have indoor plumbing in the beginning. As a result, I am familiar with the concept of an outhouse. Regardless of all of this, nothing had prepared me for the obstacle to come; no one had thought to mention that this was to be the norm and I certainly hadn’t thought to ask. 

            This is how it went down: my director beckons me over to the restroom and manages to communicate that I should piddle. I nod vehemently, it’s already been a long trip and we’re not quite halfway there. The bathroom is an unimposing building standing on it’s own, it looks like any place of potty you might find in a park with a side for boys and a side for girls. So far, so good! Then it gets weird. In between the two entrances sits a man in a cubicle of sorts. My director proceeds to hand him money. 

            “Pay to piddle? ...Okaaaay.” 

She was kind enough to pay for me as well. I walk into the bathroom and open the first of three stalls and what do I see? I’ll tell you. A hole in the ground. That’s it. End of story. Period. A hole in the ground. Imagine my befuddled surprise, 

            “What am I supposed to do with this?” 

Ever the optimist, I proceeded to check the other two stalls for the toilet I was convinced was there. I just had to FIND it.

            “Door number three?”

 Nope. Just holes. The stalls were painfully uniform in their holeyness.  Then it hit me,

            “Oh. I must be in the men’s room!”

...I don’t know. Don’t ask me why that’s the railroad my little train of logic choochooed down, it just happened. 

            “Men like peeing in holes right? Target practice or something?”

 Of course, I was mistaken and my theory was disproved quickly upon the entrance of a couple other women. So if it definitely wasn’t a gender issue what could this hole mean? What was I supposed to do with it? I don’t have an inkling as to why it took me so long to grasp the concept of a squat toilet. I’m sure I was in denial. It probably didn’t help that they were the filthiest holes I’ve ever seen. 

            There I am, staring at the stalls, completely stupefied, when my phone demanded my immediate attention. It was Wolfie! I answered quickly and fled the bathroom, surprising myself at how relieved I was to have an escape, no matter how temporary. So here’s the gist of how that conversation went:

            “Hello?”

            “Hey. Are you ok?”

            “Yeah... Why?”

            “I just saw a marshrutka crash. There’s blood everywhere...”

            “Oh. No, I’m ok... Listen, can I call you back? I’m trying to deal with a toilet situation at the moment...”

            “Um, ok... Bye...”

            “Bye...”

Obviously, it’s not word for word. I’m relying on my memory which is based off of impressions based off of emotions based off of external stimulus based off of assumptions based off of pre-existing notions. 

            So anyway, back to the toilet. After I got off the phone I went back to the bathroom to have another go. No one can ever call me a giver-upper! The perspective of a disagreement between motorists probably helped to shake me out of my bewilderment because, quite suddenly, it was very, VERY clear how to use a squat toilet. I was no longer discombobulated, just reluctant (I had my nice boots on; bitches know what I be sayin’), but I got the job done. You’d think I was high maintenance, making that more complicated than it was...

           We all hopped back on our marshrutka and got back to it and it wasn’t long before we drove by the aforementioned crash. A marshrutka had slammed into the driver’s side door of a car. The car was crushed, the marshrutka was on it’s side. I’ve already mentioned the lack of seatbelts... It was a disconcerting scene that further emphasized our own driver’s madcap style on those serpentine mountain roads. 

           Now, I should probably explain how the marshrutkas work. They are the most common mode of transportation in Georgia. The marshrutka itself is like a very large van or small bus, if you will, but they don’t run on any schedule or any organized system for that matter; not one that I can decipher anyway. Getting a ride on a marshrutka is easy enough. Most towns have a marshrutka station and if you get there early enough in the morning you can find one to get you where you need to be even if you speak limited Georgian. What I usually do (and this technique has yet to fail me) is wander around the station, loudly stating the name of my destination... repeatedly. 

          “Kazbegi! Kazbegi is cool. Anyone else going to Kazbegi? Kaaaaazbegi... Kazbegi?”

It never takes long for a group of about 10 to 15 Georgian men to swarm and escort me to the appropriate marshrutka. There is always a sign in the windshield that indicates the destination as well, so learn those Khartuli characters! It does help to know one phrase in Georgian:

          “Sad midi khar?” (Where are you going?)

That swarm I mentioned usually pelters me with this question. Again, it’s not vital to know this (just keep saying your destination) but it doesn’t hurt. If there isn’t a station nearby the other option is to hail a marshrutka down. This can be a little more complicated. The idea is to stand at the side of the road, read the sign in the windshield of the approaching marshrutka to determine where it’s going, and wave to the driver if he’s headed your way. This is easier said than done. The signs aren’t very big, they’re written in Georgian, and (because I firmly believe in the power of repetition) those marshrutkas are moving FAST. By the time the sign is close enough to distinguish the characters, I have approximately 7.5 seconds* to a.) translate the first 3 or 4 letters, b.) determine if that translation matches my intended destination, and c.) wave down the driver with enough time for him to stop. Impossible, you say? Well, you’d be right. I have only been able to manage the translation part by the time the marshrutka zooms past.

             “Yup. That sign definitely said Batumi... Oh well, next one!”

What my fellows and I have taken to doing is waving down every marshrutka that bears down on us and hope it’s the one we want. Even then, most of them are full and won’t stop anyway. This is especially troublesome if you’re traveling in a larger group. It’s best to find a station if you can. 

             Whatever, so back to my regaling of taling. We’re back on the road and it was about this time that our driver started stopping and strangers started climbing into our vehicle. Please understand that this confused the hell out of me and I know I wasn’t the only one. I was under the impression that we were in a private marshrutka up until then. It really looked like more of a van you see, and with we three westerners, all of our luggage, our three directors, one teacher, and the driver there were maybe three seats open...

            That’s one thing I forgot to mention about marshrutkas. Those drivers pack those things like cattle cars. The more passengers in your ride, the more money you make. No seats? No problem! There’s still standing room after all...

           So these strangers are climbing into our very-not-private-after-all marshrutka and things are getting cozy. I was getting a wee bit overwhelmed, Pants Man was rolling with this new development with perfect grace, and Magellan managed to disappear for an hour or so; chameleons would envy him. Among these strangers was a large, smelly man; I forget his name. It was probably Giorgi.** 

           Giorgi was a perfect caricature. Bulbous red nose, pristine sweat beading on his weighty, hairy brow, and mouth rife with dark abysses where teeth once thrived. He carried with him an emanation that was a complex masterpiece of it’s own. It seeped through the marshrutka like a heavy fog and overwhelmed my tender nostrils. I could feel more nose hair growing in on the spot to compensate for the pollution in our cramped environment. My sweet baby jeebus, was this man drunk. I didn’t appreciate how gone Giorgi was at the time. I still had no point of reference for how much booze it actually takes to get an adult Georgian man drunk. They start them young, about age 6 or 7, if that offers any clue...

           He kept speaking Georgian, rapidly of course, as I scrambled to keep up using my little phrase book (which, by the way, had nothing helpful in that situation). Fortunately, the woman sitting next to me spoke enough English to get Giorgi’s intentions across the language barrier.

            “He... love you. Love you.”

At this I frantically shook my head, Giorgi blathered on for another minute or so, and I stare at the woman next to me, pleading for her help with my sad, sad eyes. She looked right back with a look of pity and concern on her face which didn’t help me feel any better.

            “He... hmm.....m-marry you.”

The vehemence with which I shook my head and refused could have moved mountains. Giorgi cared little for the affairs of a few bothersome mountains, however. He kept grabbing my hand and tried to use the ring that I was already wearing to propose to me over and over and over. My companions were no help. Pants Man just laughed and had a grand time drinking the beer Giorgi bought him. Magellan was nowhere to be found although I could have sworn he had been sitting in the same row of seats when the ordeal began. There I am, first day out of the nest and I already get proposed to. What can I say, when you’ve got it, you’ve got it!

             Nothing lasts forever, not even a marshrutka romance, and Giorgi’s stop came all too soon. I was devastated of course; that goes without saying. After the air had cleared (and I do mean that quite literally) the teacher called to me from the front of the marshrutka,

            “Sorry Caitlin, he is drunk.”

...I think she was trying to be helpful.

            All the excitement did help the last shank of our trip fly by. Before I knew it, we trundled past a big sign that read “OZURGETI” in nice, convenient English characters. I have yet to see another sign like it in Georgia and I sort of love it... It was my marker for the next phase of my time in Georgia and the beginning of life with my host family.

*Non-scientific and altogether fabricated estimate of a number.

** “Giorgi” is probably the most common male name in Georgia and I mean common. If I ever forget a man’s name I just throw “Giorgi” out there. 80% of the time, I’m spot on. For women it’s either “Nino” or something ending in “tuna” like “Khatuna” or “Etuna.” Just mumble the first syllable and enunciate the “tuna” part. Most of the women in the room will look up. Try it, it’s fun!

To be continued....