Highway to the Danger Zone - Batumi 2012

So what have I been up to this past month?

            I’ve certainly spent some time listening to John Butler and gazing skyward as the evening slowly envelopes the green and purple mountains that shelter my home. You should see these stars.

            I’ve also partied a bit, participated in a few benders, and tried to shake the only other British Columbian in my group of the mast of a pirate ship.

            When my home was announced, standing in the lobby of our Tbilisi hotel, my last words to the huddled mass of my colleagues was “Batumi 2012!” This was spoken as a battle cry; I think it was the nerves.

            Batumi turned out to be a refreshing disaster, a shame-filled exertion of pent-up steam. I spent one week in this city; fellow TLGers drifted in and out but yet a handful of us remained, steadfast in our desire to burn through our money and our brain cells. Our hostel was our own little Hotel California; we could not bring ourselves to leave.

               Batumi is a mix of Puerto Vallarta, Nice on the French Riviera, and what I image Pyongyang to look like. American hotels make up the majority of the skyline; Soviet-era monstrosities make up the rest. The air is fresh, the Black Sea pounds the rocky shore mercilessly, and the thrills are abundant and cheap. This town was to host our crucible, our last little hurrah before we retreated to our villages and awaited winter.

Beautiful day on the beach, Batumi in the distance

Mornings were spent pulling ourselves off the jagged mattresses of our hostel bunks. I even witnessed one chap brushing his teeth with vodka...nobody had even egged him on. Afternoons were spent on beach.

            The Black Sea leaves little along the shoreline besides flat, smooth rocks. The beach is clean and the rocks you can either sit on or gleefully skip into the turquoise ocean. Unless the sea is angry, and boy did it get angry. In the closest that I had come to death in a matter of days, a few friends and I decided it would be great fun to swim out into the ten-foot rollers and bob like ignorant seagulls.

            We hollered to one another, laughing foolishly as the waves would pick us up and merrily drop us back down under the surface. I believe two friends even marvelled at the power of the sea. This continued on for several minutes, but then we collectively began to run out of breath. In this circumstance, usually the wisest course of action is to make for shore. In this particular circumstance, that action could only be completed by trudging through the danger zone.

            The danger zone is a strip of water not 7 or 8 feet from the water’s edge. In this area, the menacing waves curl, crash, and wipe out anything in their path. One by one, we began to break for shore. As the farthest out (or the weakest swimmer), I had an excellent view as my colleagues struggled, became submerged, and finally made landfall. When it was my turn, I used up the last of my reserves to power to shore like a seal escaping an orca. I made the mistake of pausing in the danger zone; I couldn’t help it, the look on my friends faces made me turn and peer over my shoulder. What was I honestly expecting to see?

Opera House and Poseidon just freeballin'

            A bastard of a wave, one of Mother Nature’s finest, was poised to obliterate me. I did not even feel the crash of stones being whipped against my ankles as the tide receded like the cocked arm of a prizefighter. I took a couple deep breaths and thought of the Queen.

            Now if you ever get the chance to feel as if you’re a pair of soiled gym shorts being tossed about your washing machine, I strongly suggest you don’t take it. The wave picked me up, turned me on my head, tossed me down, and grated me along the rocky bottom.

            When the worst of it was over, I ran to shore and collapsed amongst my fellow survivors. The majority of us were bleeding from the impact of the rocks; a toe on my left foot was both bloodied and broken. For several minutes, which seemed like hours, nobody said a word. We each paid a Lari (.60 cents CAD) for a lawn chair, passed around a beer, and thought about our lives. Great bonding experience, this.

The lights of Batumi

         Nights were spent pre-gaming at the hostel, followed by a trip down to the boardwalk. We would inevitably end up at the Seizure Club (as we named it), a completely empty dance club on the beach with a beautiful Russian DJ who would not take requests, it didn’t even matter how loud you asked her. This place was awful. The Seizure Club derives its name from the strobe-light positioned directly over top of the dance floor. The light was never turned off; it made you appear to be a terrific dancer, but it did nothing to hinder the inevitable spins.

If you look closely, you can almost make out an idiot standing in front of a pirate ship

            One night, a couple of buddies and I decided to hell with the Seizure Club, we were going directly to the pirate-ship-shaped restaurant. The place was packed with Georgian holiday-goers, drinking beer, eating off tables that struggled under the weight of food, and dancing ridiculously to the live band. It probably took about two minutes for me to fall in love with the place. It probably took about three minutes for my new American friend to decide that we really should chase our frequent libations with a spot of cow brain and a dash of chicken heart. We struggled through the crunches and the wriggles in what was a truly horrifying experience; at one point I even longed for the violent embrace of the Black Sea. When some of our companions joined us, we fed them the remnants with childish grins on our faces. Upon informing them of their fatal mistake, one of them said “damn, that’s good. Is there any more?” 

Fried cow brain in garlic sauce

At one point, we decided to retire to the poop deck. Under the stars, we talked about religion, politics, socio-economics, and how high we could make it up the mast of the ship without falling. The honour of 33 million Canadians at stake, a Vancouverite and I each took position at the bottom of the rope ladder that led up forty-feet to the heavens above. I made it about 15 feet before I came to the realization that this idea was worse than the brain. The other canuck was undeterred and reached a point only a couple of feet from the top.

            Now it may have been the stress of being so far from home, a capitalist struggling with the prospect of single-handedly fighting off the ghost of Joseph Stalin and marching hand-in-hand with these wonderful people into the 21^st century. It may also have been the moonshine. I crashed to the wooden deck of the ship, grasped my partner’s ladder with both hands, and began to shake it with all of the strength I could muster. He made it back down safely to earth despite my repeated questions regarding his masculinity. Never have I woken up more ashamed.  

This is the face you make when you eat brain

 We soon tired of the vicious cycle of Batumi life, and five of us decided that some exploring was in order. With a bit of careful planning, we boarded the shadiest bus line in the country, destination: Trabzon, Turkey.

            The next post will be dedicated towards doing what Lonely Planet should have done a long time ago: warn people to stay away from the home of hardware stores and hookers, a place we eloquently refer to as the Trap Zone.  

           

-          I would also like to take this opportunity to sincerely express that the opinions and experiences found in this blog are my own and in no way reflect upon the nature or the values of TLG and the Georgian Government.   -  

A Canadian far from home

They Call Me Zacho

They call me Zacho, well, at least half of the time they do. They switch between Zacho, Zakh, Za-char-i, and Inglusuri (English speaker).

            I have been in the Republic of Georgia for just over one month, though I am starting to feel as if it has been years. The half-truth is that before this point, I have yet to feel comfortable enough in my surroundings to start this blog. I enjoy being in Georgia, yet I am no closer to understanding this place any more than I was when I first stepped off the plane in Tbilisi.

            The other side of the coin, the other half of the truth, is that though I initially faltered, this blog writes itself.

            In one month, I’ve climbed mountains, stood in thousand-year-old monasteries, drank moonshine, came close to death, brought others around me close to death, been paraded about a mountain hamlet on the back of a horse, potato farmed, hayed, smuggled thousands of cigarettes into Turkey, inadvertently stumbled into (and ran out of) a whorehouse, and ate a cows brain. These are just a few of many other enjoyable experiences. I have three months remaining on my contract, with an option for another four, so what the hell is in store for me?

My home in Kvatia, Adjara Region, Republic of Georgia

I’ll explain the booze, cigarettes and prostitutes in a later post, however, I’ll begin with what it is that I am doing here and why I'm in the Republic of Georgia. 

            Georgia first became a unified kingdom in the 9^th century, but there is evidence that Homo erectus, a precursor to our species, had been living here over a million years ago. So, to a person who comes from a country that was first unified 145 years ago, with a native population that has lived there for thousands of years, this place seems damned ancient indeed.

            Georgia must hold the record for the most invaded country in history; by my personal count (not necessarily accurate), Georgia has been invaded by around fourteen different countries, kingdoms and empires, including by Alexander the Great, Pompey, and Ogedei Khan (son of Genghis). Each invading force took a couple of cracks at it, including those pesky Mongols, who attacked Georgia eight different times in one seventeen-year span. The history of Sakartvelo (Georgia) is one of blood, steel and resistance; these people feel immense pride at still being here.

The view from the window of my room

Georgia sits at the crossroads of Europe and Asia (hence all the invasions), and this is why the Russians (and the Soviets) held on to it, off and on, for close to two-hundred years. The Soviets were many things, yet great educators they were not and the last seventy-years were quite hard on Georgia’s school system. When the Soviet Union collapsed in the early 90’s, Georgia went through a decade of violence, repression, and civil war. Then, a thirty-six-year-old lawyer named Mikheil Saakashvili was propelled into the presidency by the non-violent Rose Revolution and Georgia started to westernize.

            Part of this modernization was focused on Georgia’s educational system. When Saakashvili finally got off of his ass and delivered his promised educational reforms in 2010, Teach and Learn with Georgia (TLG) was created. TLG is designed to help schools shake off the shackles of the Soviet Union by bringing in westerners; it is hoped that these foreigners will teach both the students and their Georgian colleagues how to speak, read, and learn in English.    

            I am one of the lucky westerners that has been invited into this country and it is an immense honor to be a part of the rebirth of this ancient civilization. My school is in Kvatia, Adjara Region. Adjara alone also has an interesting story to tell an amateur historian. My family tells me that the Turk’s held onto this area for hundreds of years and the valley in which I live, which leads directly to the Turkish border, is filled with Turkish speaking, Islam practicing people who have dark hair and dark eyes. These are truly lovely people.

My toilet

Some would struggle to call Kvatia a village; it is more a collection of houses that straddle the mountains on either side of a slow-trickling river. We have two shacks that sell cigarettes and chocolate along the dirt road that is my lifeline to a much different way of life. I believe there to be more cows than people here. Yet, despite the lack of infrastructure and the charming amusements that we in the West value so much, there is a school and thus, this is home.

            I have two options of reaching said school from my three-storey, wood and brick house. I can either take small, sure-footed steps down the steep gravel path that is inconveniently lined with cow excrement or, I can power-slide by shifting the weight from my toes to my heels. My morning commute often requires both. Allah save me when the snow starts to fall.

            I am living with a small family, two children ages thirteen and fifteen, and their widowed mother. The girl, who is the younger of the two, is shy, sweet, and often full of laughter. The boy has had to grow up quickly to meet the responsibilities of living in the mountains, yet he also loves to laugh and crack jokes. The mother is an absolute joy, she can go from yelling (as most Georgians do) to laughing in a split-second. The only words she ever has for me is “modi!” (come) and “chame!” (eat).

Just me farming like a boss

 I have never met people like this before. I have known them for a little over two weeks, yet they are fiercely invested in my well-being. I cannot sit on concrete or I will die. It doesn’t matter if it is 30 degrees outside, if I don’t put on socks I will die. If I attempt to wash dishes, you guessed it, I will die. I am treated like something between royalty and a deity, and all this from people who have so little to give in the first place.

            So here I will stay, in this house amongst the mountains until Christmas time. I will eat boiled cheese and bread, farm potatoes and pumpkins, and try to make a little difference in this world. It’s a foolish cliché, yet if I can inspire one kid to achieve a higher level of education, my time, my sweat, and possibly my health, will be well spent.        

            Future posts will be geared towards filling you all in on the acts of debauchery my colleagues and I have committed in the past month, and my first couple days in the classroom.

            Nachvamdis (goodbye!)

-          Zacho