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