Ridin' Dirty

There's no mistaking the atmosphere—although each carries a slightly different feel than the next.

Nestled between villagers, cramped seating, pounds of bread, animals and fuel is the heart of the transportation marvel...the marshultka.

Although I hope to never ride another once I leave this country, I must say that I would not know where I'd be without the "beast."

In the morning I typically ride a marshultka—or conversion van/mini-bus—with my host mother, brother and other teachers to school. The 20-minute village ride is bumpy, noisy and in most circumstances, annoying as all hell. But it's an experience.

On days I am lazy or just don't feel like riding with teachers, I will catch a later ride at a stop not far from my flat. The later bus is filled with primarily villagers, hauling goods and farm supplies from Zestafoni (Zest'aponi) to either their houses or those who are not able to do it themselves.

I learned recently that much of the mail that is transported across the country is done so by marshultka. So, basically a person gives a package to a driver, who is then trusted to deliver the package at a reasonable date to the specified location. Talk about trust (and a busted mail system).

Longer journeys equate to better buses and better seating for passengers. If I want to travel to Tbilisi, Batumi or even a shorter hop to Kutaisi, I pay a higher fair but generally have a more luxurious ride, equipped with better seating and fewer animal companions.

But despite better suspension and seating for a motor ride, you will never feel at ease due to the poorly kept roadways.

I'm not exactly sure why the country doesn't invest much money into it's infrastructure (instead of ridiculously nice glass government and police buildings). Maybe government officials like a rustic feel, similar to block wheels on a rocky hillside being powered at ridiculously fast speeds.

The reason I brought up the marshultka is because I've been asked numerous times about it as of late. It's not a new mode of transportation—relatively unknown to the west—and is in fact also used by nearby countries as the primary means of getting around cheaply.

Here is the Wiki link describing how it works: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marshrutka

I can't imagine the States having this sort of system as there are too many impatient and thuggish people that would not be able to sit together for great distances. What do you think?

In other news, I'm nearly done with my contract and I look forward to what's ahead. I've enjoyed my time in a new and wonderful place, but the teaching aspect of things has been a bit rocky (as I've described before) and has undoubtedly swayed my decision to not want to re-sign.

This week Zestafoni FC won the country championship and celebrated with a party in the town square. Fireworks, singing, chanting, drinking and dancing created an atmosphere that I had never witnessed before here. It was like the city had just been founded or some type of extravagant importance had just been dug up in the dirt—besides football cleats of course.

The weather is still rainy and periodically cold, so it's been hard to plan trips on the weekend to places where I'd like to hike or lay beachside.

Last Thursday, I went to the coastal community of Poti, which is about a 2.5-hour marshultka trip to the west. The town is quite industrial and far from a beach resort, but the architecture of the houses and the well-kept lighthouse were definitely high points for me.

In my head, June looks to be the best month yet. With only half-months schooling and warmer, drier weather, trips to Mestia and Kazbegi to hike are in the works—as well as a few day trips to the south and west to hopefully see some dinosaur bones and a bikini or two.

Stay tuned.

-SCB

Turkeyti

Like the sound of a deranged man gasping for his final breath, the crackly minaret echoed an alarming blast throughout the Cappedocian valley—for 5 minutes—at 5 a.m.

It was the first prayer of the day, but not the first time I had been caught off guard by the Muslim call to worship.

The Kayseri bus station was undoubtedly speaker linked to a nearby Mosque and gave Crystal, Bradley and me our first taste of the outside-Christian world at…you guessed it…5 a.m.

We arrived at the station around 9 p.m. after a nearly 12-hour trek from Trabzon, a city we decided to skip over due to its unpromising weather and relatively boring layout.

Because the next bus to Goreme—our next travel stop—was not until 7 a.m., we decided to bite the bullet and crash in a small cafe on the opposite end of the station.

When the prayer started, I was in mid stride to the lavatory, (as I had suffered a bit of food poisoning from some Turkish doner sandwich that had probably been sitting on a shelf for the better part of the day) and literally almost had the shit scared out of me—for real.

The second 5 a.m.-er hit me (with less bowl-erly force) while I was sound asleep inside a cave hostel, yet it woke me with a smile on my face.

I was in a cave. I was in Turkey. I was in culture bliss.

Despite the touristy aspects of Goreme, the small Cappedocian town carries a lot of charm, as well as a lot of historical marks that can only be described fully by pictures. The plateaus, rock formations and BC-dated caves that outline numerous valleys of lush vegetation are in fact like many locales in Star Wars—only without vicious Tuscian raiders or jawas.

For three days we roamed the landscape and explored Pigeon and Love Valleys, as well as nearby towns and rocky cliffs that hid ancient churches and religious relics. We also ran into numerous TLG friends and also had an awkward animal experience.

Now, I can’t say Turkish people are anymore overbearing salesmen/women than Georgians, but they certainly are a lot better at swindling camel rides.

After Crystal showed interest in taking a picture of a couple humpbacks we discovered parked behind a shop just outside of the city, we were quickly (forcefully) thrown onto the beasts and dragged around a small perimeter for about…hmm..I dunno…five minutes.

Five unwanted camel minutes= 30 lira (or 18 bucks).

I told the guy “No way, no how.” And split like a camel jockey fleeing from a sandstorm.
After exploring a nearby ridge on our first day in Goreme that was roughly 3 km or so from the Panoramic hostel where we were staying at, we decided to pitch the tent we brought and give it a go for the second night.

We had a fire. We had a stray dog. We had food and drinks. But we had no clothing preparations for the elements.

I obviously can't speak for the others, but I had never been so miserable in my life. My feet at one point curled on their own and my butt felt like it was stuck to a piece of dry ice that was somehow hidden beneath the thin piece of nylon protecting me from the outside. The minaret preaching from nearby towns was actually the most welcomed thing my ears had heard in years, as it signified the break of dawn was near.

And if there was some consolation for the busted experience, daybreak exemplified one of the prettiest scapes in the world; with hot air balloons draped over a rising sun and Mt. Erciyes peaking above a layer of clouds.

It was cold…but perfect.

Despite the beauty and history lessons provided in the Gorematic experience, the ultimate goal of our trip to Turkey was to find some better weather than what we left with—preferably on the water.

Antalya, nestled upon the Mediterranean Sea, provided not only a climatic change from the cold and the rain of the north, but also a pretty nice beach and a more European-style town than any of us expected.

Not far from our town-stay in Old Town was a large bazaar, and a harbor that sat on water as clean as that of Nassau or St. Thomas. Near the waters' edge of the public beach, Crystal made friends with some Turk kids, who were quick to relocate to our towels and request pictures and our Facebook contacts.

Besides doners and the westernized fast food (that the country surprisingly has a lot of), Antalya's choice for nom included boiled eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, sesame bread, spiced meats and lots and lots of yogurt.

The Turks as a whole drink mostly tea—lots of tea. If you are in a café you drink tea. If you are walking on the street you drink tea. And much like the South, sugar is a big part of that drinking.

After a day on the coast, we headed further west to the ancient Greek town of Olympos to stay in what we thought would be a tree house hostel. It wasn’t exactly a tree house, but I believe the buildings were made out of some type of wood (at least they looked like it).

Our housemates included an Australian/Swiss (it’s a weird story) and a German named Mathias Burger, who we became hiking buddies with. Like us, Mathias is a teacher in a foreign country (Bulgaria) working for he government and came down on holiday to basically do exactly what we were doing—whatever he wanted.

Most of the guests in the town were westerners, with a large concentration of Brits and Aussies camping at our “tree house.”

It’s usually pretty easy for me to differentiate the two Queensland nationalities, but when you throw in a South African (Bradley) to the mix, I have to go back to the drawing board and listen more closely so I don’t step on any toes.

The trails around Olympos are quite exotic, littered with ancient Greek stadiums, bathhouses and ruins. The Med is also a five-minute walk from the main road.

Although the water was far colder than I would ever dare to venture into in Florida, I decided it was now or never for a swim in the Gobbler. Right off the beach is a sharp set of rocks that were perfect to scale—if you had shoes.

I made it about 15-feet up the side of one of the less straight edges before deciding to jump and save my feet for another day.

It was probably a good idea since the long walks from bus stations and hikes in one pair of damp Sauconys provided plenty of blisters without any help from me purposely being an idiot.

Our last night before departure (24-hr bus home) was expected to be another bus station crash, but we luckily stumbled upon a couch surfer who worked at a bar we were watching a Turkish cover band at.

So instead of no sleep, we were able to scrounge up four hours—a pure lifesaver for a group too tired to even argue. I don’t remember the guy’s name we stayed with but I do remember his hair, which was different than most of the younger males in the country.

I don’t know how to describe the hairstyle other than a mullet with Turkish flair. Some guys even had a bit of a rattail that fell just below the last bit of the horrifically awesome do (I totally wanted one but dreaded explaining to my host family what the hell I was thinking).

As the last minaret I would hear sounded in the distance from the Antalya bus station, I, like many others walking through the terminal, never flinched. The secular atmosphere and borderline Western hustle and bustle had already gotten to me. I had only been out of the Republic of Georgia for 9 days and realized that it’s hard to leave the industrial and organized world—despite early morning wakeup calls or crappy camels.

I'm Turken To Ya'

Browsing through countless articles, travel blogs, and sites has led me to the conclusion that this place called Turkey is somewhat of a gem of the Mediterranean and Eastern Europe.

Maybe the travelers were more prepared for their findings than I, but I had no idea about anything it held besides Istanbul, the Ottoman Empire and a bunch of bazaar loving gypsies.

I've got three days left before I embark on a trip that really hasn't been mapped out. The loose plan is to connect in Trabzon for a bus that shuttles to the center of the country—in the vicinity of Goreme—where the scenery resembles that of Tatooine.

The kicker of the trip is the camping. Crystal, Bradley and me will be using a pop-up tent to sleep for several of the 10 nights we'll be gone over our Easter break. There's no real camp spots or roads in mind. Everything will be on a whim—accordingly planned.

There's also the tree hotels that are supposedly cheap and gorgeous near the town of Olympos. I'm not exactly sure what a tree hotel is like, but I envision it's more glamorous than the high sleeping quarters Dr. Grant took the kids into in Jurassic Park—or sleeping on the hard ground.

That's all I got for now. I'll update the fallouts and fun follies from the trip in the weeks ahead.

As far as what's been going on, the last month has been a bit of a string of continuity that really isn't worth 500 words to map out. Here's a few spontaneous shots from the Blackberry. Enjoy.

Eka and Lollie's Organics

And their kinkhali

Outskirts of Kutaisi

Morning view of Tskhratskaro

An Army Of One

For me, there’s nothing better than starting a workday with an onslaught of sunlight. Despite not moving the clock ahead, the days are significantly longer (sun setting around 9 p.m.) than they were just a couple weeks ago, providing an extra spark of Georgian teaching significance that was undoubtedly missing from my life.

I guess you could call it a “Mid-Summer Night’s Dream” for a Western Florida boy.

The daily spark has been vital, as my classes have been manageable, but not dzalian kargi (very good). As my relationships with my students have grown in time, so has my impatience with their laziness. Lately I’ve been bringing my laptop to class to assist with listening exercises as I've found that just pulling it out and putting it on the table grabs their attention (they rarely listen to Tamrico reading from the book).

“Play music” and “Let me see your games” are typical responses I get from the older kids. The younger tots just wait for my next move, like skittish animals waiting to see if it’s OK to come a little closer for the kill.

I use the glamour to bait them and an old Macintosh trick to pull them in.

Think back to the mid ‘90s Disney movie “Blank Check,” where a young chap uses a voice over on his computer to create a different identity known as Mr. Macintosh so that he can cash a blank check he acquired from a crime lord.

Well, I’ve begun using the same formula in the classroom—only with a text document. For all practical purposes I do not need any mode of assistance to teach English pronunciations, but a computer voice is just so much cooler and makes more sense to a bunch of undisciplined 13-year-olds. The little shits in class are still gonna be little shits in class. But at least they give pause when the phantom English teacher enters the room.

Friday I went on an unexpected field trip to Kutaisi with the highschoolers to visit an army base. As I've explained before, I live on the seat of my pants around these here parts—delightfully unprepared for my next foolish mistake.

When we reached the base, I still had no idea what we were doing and looked like a complete asshole when an officer had to confiscate my Swiss Army Knife at the gate.

Stupid American.

Although they scoured my pockets with a medal detector, they let me keep my 10-lb backpack without checking it. I guess they figured the Russians couldn’t buy out an American for another Kutaisi bomb plot.

Stupid Georgians.

For the boys, the guns, tanks and all the sophisticated military equipment on display was like a real-life Candyland. The girls and I had were over the recruiting hoopla in 10 minutes and enjoying the dziani amindi (sunny weather) with ara skola (no school).

The trip on base truly brought out the gayness in the boys. And when I say gay, I mean gay.

It’s still quite strange to me how a country controlled by Catholicism and 1950s male-dominated behavior is so touchy feely. The older boys (and even men sometimes) are constantly holding and practically fondling one another in the classroom and in public.

Gay-a-phobs is what I call them.

But hey, whatever gives you that spark, I guess. I’ll stick to the Georgian sunlight…and to myself.

-SCB

Lost In Transportation

It's kind of an absolute flip-flop in mentality: In America I couldn't leave my phone. In Georgia, I can't keep my phone on me.

The most recent example of my detachment of communication resulted in the indefinite loss of Mr. Nokia. I can't even make up a great excuse for losing "him" besides the fact that I was crammed between a railing and a window.

This was the second time (within a month) I've dropped the phone while in transit. The first time was in a teacher's car on the way home from school. This time I dropped it in a crack between my seat and the sliding door on my way to Kutaisi last weekend.

It's not as though I hate the phone, although it's pretty much dated in the "Saved by the Bell" era, I just don't have the awareness of it like I do with my Blackberry—that used to live on my hand.

But the problem of phone-loss syndrome isn't a problem for me in a communication sense. No, no, I'm quite OK without my phonebook of three people. The problem lies within my host family.

You see, when a Georgian has a problem, everybody has a problem.

Families here are very close and always up in ya biznis...and everybody elses'. And as much as I like the close bonds and togetherness, I also hate them.

If my family knew my Liberty Bank card got eaten by an ATM in Armenia or I carelessly dropped my phone on a bus in another city, it would be an all-out embarrassing production of trying to help and would involve getting others involved that have no business getting involved (evident with anything the dumb American loses or does wrong).

I mistakenly told Goga about my problem after I inquired his help about unlocking my Blackberry from T-Mobile. Since then, he has questioned me extensively about finding it and even threatened to tell his mother about the loss.

The culture apparently hasn't really caught up with the once-thought-normal concept of having personal problems and/or realizing when a problem should be handled solo.

It was actually a topic of conversation I had with an English-speaking girl who works at the Zestafoni Police Dept. After failing to get anywhere with marshultka drivers and reporting my loss to TLG, I went to the hot fuzz to help track it down since they seemingly are never doing in this town.

I was referred to (nameless) since the five men in blue smoking cigarettes and watching Telemundo inside the main office weren't exactly making progress in explaining my steps on filing a report.

(Nameless), who carried a perky smile and easy-going demeanor, was more than willing to help me cut through red tape with the department, block the sim card at Geocell and talk about my frustration of independence.

"In this country you are always a child," she told me. "It doesn't matter how old you are. I am ready to be on my own. I want to move to England."

The fact that she was one of the only 20-somethings from this town I've met who speaks English knocked me back a few steps. The fact she was ready to be on her own in another country almost knocked me to the ground.

Bravo to you, young lady. Maybe the "Leave it to Beaver" mindset of Georgia isn't as strong as I thought.

Or maybe I'm losing more than just my telephone.


—SCB

Appease Please

The feel of a plump, circular bruise on my shin has subsequently signified the start of spring. After a week of brilliant sunshine, warm weather and football games involving me running for my life from 10-year-olds, I think the transition is complete.

Despite one of my students being expelled last week (he's a little shit) classes have settled down a bit. Tomriko and I have been able to reach a similar teaching page, which has resulted in me playing more games and instructing more activities with the better classes.

One of which was a listening exercise with English music from my laptop. For the first time since
I've been here, all of the classes were attentive and ready to participate. The song game spawned interest from my 7th graders (best class) to sing the ABC song. I'm not exactly sure why, but they wanted to sing it—even though they didn't really know it.

I even tried throwing in "Old McDonald" at the end of the lesson, but they were more interested in me singing Michael Jackson.

Not a chance.

I've come to terms with the fact that close to half of the Tskhratskaro kids (particularly the boys) are unteachable. That sounds a bit cynical, but classes range from 4 to 12 students, so the odds are not in favor of any idealist notion that the majority will one day leave the country and put their mark on Hallmark or The New York Times .

That's not to say they aren't smart. I just figure if you're used to drawing and making paper objects in the back of class and automatically passing, you probably don't really need to give a damn about past participles or how to pronounce "brilliant."

Speaking of brilliant, I lost my TLG phone—again. I'll talk more about that at a later date.

The main convenient store, which I basically consider the Zestafoni town center, began selling ice cream outside last Monday and even added another cell phone money machine. Either the town just upped its anti or they've discovered my western weaknesses.

Spirli or Spiliri. I'm not exactly sure how to spell it or say it, but I was a guest of it on Saturday. It's a village about 20 minutes away where Lollie (I still can't spell her name correctly) Bebia has a home.

Initial plans were to stay for the night. Of course I had no idea what kind of conditions I would be facing and had not prepared for an all-out camping trip inside brick walls. There wasn't enough heat or booze in that place to keep a 600 lb bear warm, so I was thankful Eka pulled the plug on the idea around dark.

So even though I feel the sting of spring, it's still Georgia—not Florida. And although there are days in March in which the thermometer will break the 60-degree mark, you must still wear a coat to appease the "sick" gods that watch over this country.

Or at least the mortals that cook you lobio.

In other news, there are new options in the documentary plan. I met an education coordinator in Kuitasi that is from the northern Caucus region. His family is now living in Poti due to the conflict in the region.

I'm hoping to get the ball rolling on the project in the next few weeks.

—SCB

From Around The Grounds

One of the prettier pictures from Armenia


The chickens love sitting in the marshultka stops



It's almost time