something like how it feels

You wake up sweaty with words. You throw off your blanket, and it clatters onto the hardwood floor as a pile of black letters. The morning draft rushes over your damp skin. You scramble onto your hands and knees to reassemble b-l-a-n-k-e-t, but there are no roman letters, only strange characters lopsided and tangled. Eventually you piece together მატ­ყლის and crawl beneath its warmth.

Later, you realize you have forgotten vocabulary back at home. You have to go get it. You dial the airline and ask for a ticket to Orlando. You hear typing over the receiver. When the attendant finally speaks to you, the receiver acts like a sausage grinder, and the words coil into unrecognizable piles at your feet. This is not especially comforting. Should you call back and try them with your French?

You have your books, of course. When have they ever failed you? You open your backpack and go to grab your Georgian For Beginners. The paperback slips from your hand, and your fingers come out sticky with ink. The words are melting off of the page. There is some type of ontological contagion, you think. You chuck the book against the wall. It momentarily bursts into clarity, as if being run through a projector, before losing its integrity and oozing down the wall.

Then something comes to you. You concentrate on the English language while taking a pillow into your hands. You fluff it slowly before slamming it into the ground. It bursts into letters. You move around the room deliberately, smashing any object you can get your hands on. Letters are ricocheting wildly around the room. Bottles, dolls, vases, wax figurines–they all explode and scatter.

You stop. You’re breathing heavily now. There are only five letters, you think. You shuffle your feet along the floor and peer down as if you were searching for perfect seashells. One at a time, you pluck up the letters: s, i, g, w, n.

You walk outside and slap the letters onto your back in the correct order: w,i,n,g,s. You feel a sprouting. You walk to the edge of the yard where the land steeply drops off, and you look out at the mountains.

Kazbegi

The pace of life has slowed considerably since my first frenetic days in Georgia. The honking and the English banter of Tbilisi have dissolved away into the soft murmuring of a mountain stream. The lights and airplanes have been pounded to dust beneath the hooves of horses and cows. Industrial exhaust has condensed and formed soft piles of manure on the rocky paths.

Kazbegi waits for me in the morning, patient as a sleeping cat. I wake and spread Nutella over stale chunks of crust. I walk the kilometer down the squat mountain, stepping to the side as one or two old Russian cars turn up dust. I cross the bridge over the river Tergi and pass the indifferent cafe workers; their eyes look as dusty as the roads.

I light a cigarette when I hit town center, standing in the shade. Taxis and marshutkas are parked around the central statue. A few of the Georgian drivers eventually wander up and ask questions. I don’t understand them, but the conversation finds its gravity around the statement: “Var mastavlebe inglisuri politzia. Me ak erti tve”–I’m the English teacher for the police, here for one month (in very poor Georgian). There are a few follow up questions that I cannot understand. I gesticulate my confusion. They begin to converse amongst themselves.

“Nakvamdis!” I say. Goodbye!

“Kargad,” they say. Bye.

I walk towards the police station. Pedestrians mill about with unmistakably strange, circuitous orbits. Small town days are longer than city days and there are fewer straight lines. Time is not adversarial, it’s friendly; it’s as plentiful as undeveloped real estate.

I continue on and breach the police station yard. Officers are beginning to gather for class. The more confident students give me a shy “hello,” followed by a bit of giggling, and the others say “gamarjoba” or else nod their heads. I respond in turn.

I set up my books and computer upstairs and write the day’s schedule on the small whiteboard. Class is scheduled to start at noon, and we start exactly at Georgian noon, which falls somewhere between 12:15 and 12:20.

In class, we are learning the uses of he/his and she/her. There are pictures of famous people people with fill in the blank sentences: His name is Tom Cruise. He’s an actor. We come to picture b) President Putin. The officers cross out his face. His first name is Snake.

Afterwards, I walk back into town and order some meat at a cafe. I unsheathe Hemingway or Kerouac from my pack and read while I’m waiting. A few tourists–Israelis, Germans, Czechs–claim or vacate the surrounding tables. I listen while I read, hungry for English conversation. I approach a table after I’ve polished off my chicken shish.

“It’s hard to ignore an English conversation around here,” I say. “Where are you guys from?”

“They are from Germany,” says a woman sitting across from a couple. “And I’m Georgian.”

She had an unmistakable American accent. “Georgia the state or Georgia the country?” I ask.

“I am from here, Sakartvelo” (the Georgian name for Georgia).

I wrap up the conversation so I don’t impose, but my appetite for conversation is far from slaked. I leave the cafe thinking about the “Dhakar Doldrums” and “Harlem Doldrums” of Carlo Marx in On the Road.

As I cross back over the river Tergi, I pop on my Ray Bans and pipe Bob Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm” into my earbuds. I kick up the volume a notch and cast an American glance up the mountain. O lonely guesthouse on high, I will shake and boogie heavenward until we are one!

Keeping the Fire Lit; Or, How I Wish Prometheus Would Gift Me a Hot Water Tank

When the Israelites hungered, did not God provide them mana? When the ancient sailors were lost, did not God provide them stars by which to navigate their course? When Mark was smelly and unshowered, did not God provide him with some honeycomb looking device to stick into an aluminum bucket of water and then plug into the wall and then wait twenty minutes to then stand in the bathtub and use an oversized porcelain cup to dip into the bucket and awkwardly pour warm water over himself?

Rejoice, America! Rejoice, World! These things have been provided! So too is thy future provided for, World, as with a mythical and forever climbing 401k portfolio!

O why then, Mark, dost thou cry out to the heavens when the old woman who runs the guesthouse intermittently steals away into the night with thy honeycomb looking device? Dost thou not remember the sufferings of old Job? Is not thy soul ennobled by suffering? Is not thy soul perennially fresh and whole, flowering moon-yellow from thy body in the Georgian night?

Beginnings

The time is 5 pm in Kazbegi, with the great, drizzling low-lying clouds floating in, obscuring the mountain tops. The clouds of Kazbegi are not the dark clouds of a Florida thunderstorm. They are soft and monolithic. They float by with peaceful lethargy, snuffing out the summit of Mt Kazbek, where Prometheus was supposedly chained.

How did I get here?

After a few days of goodbyes, my journey began when I flew out of the Orlando airport at 6:25 pm on August 10th. I transferred in Chicago and then arrived in Istanbul, where I had a layover of nearly six hours. I proceeded to set myself up in an upstairs cafe and pay for a couple overpriced Turkish beers, Efes brand. I don’t know about Istanbul itself, but the airport was awfully expensive. I bided my time until I had an hour before my flight, and then I headed for the gate. It didn’t take long to spot my fellow TLG (Teach and Learn with Georgia) participants. There were about six of us, all American except for Simon from England, and we introduced ourselves and chatted for a bit before the flight. Then we were off.

On the flight to Tbilisi I sat next to Ren, a sassy young woman from New Orleans. We began to dissect the archetypes who might participate in such a program: the altruistic do-gooder, the adventurer, the party type, etc. In analyzing my own motivations, I had to deny altruism in myself and doubt it in others. Teaching English as a foreign language is very far from being a moral act.

Upon landing in Tbilisi, everyone made it quickly through customs, and we went to gather our luggage. The bags were slow in coming. Everyone lucked out with their bags except for Rob, a participant from Colorado. He would have to wait.

We exited the secure portion of the airport and walked into the airports main terminal. We were greeted by TLG representatives, Tamara and Tiko, and an cameraman, who pointed his lens at us without speaking. Each of us awkwardly vacillated between being candid and posing. Greg and Melissa agreed to give interviews, and the rest of us slinked away to change some money.

This was it! The real Tbilisi waited patiently for us beyond the automatic sliding glass doors. Burdened with our luggage, we walked outside to see a TLG bannered van waiting for us.

At the hotel, we were paired up and assigned rooms. I was matched with Simon, the definition of an English gentleman. Deferential and polite in every way, Simon was an ideal roommate.

I was a little nervous about sleeping, as I usually have trouble in a new environment. I half hoped that people would stay awake and talk, but everyone headed to bed. Once I was under the blanket, though, it didn’t take long for my fatigue to overpower my anxiety. I slept straight through to the next morning.

We met in the lobby shortly before noon to go and take our medical checks. There were other participants that morning from around the world–Canada, Australia, England, New Zealand. They had arrived a day or two earlier. Everyone piled into the van. We got our first look at the city in daylight. The streets were a mix of Paris and Cairo: overall less developed than I had anticipated but with a tinge of European sophistication.

The clinic was very unassuming from the outside. It was located in one of the innumerable nondescript concrete buildings lining the streets. The inside, fortunately, was clean and professional. We all took turns giving blood and urine samples and then drove back to the hotel for lunch. Following lunch there was some free time and afterwards a walking tour of the city led by Tamara, the head training coordinator. We took a marshutka–a type of van used as public transport throughout Georgia–into the city center and proceeded to walk around for close to four hours. This was to be our first and only relaxing day during the training.

The following week was strictly scheduled. Breakfast was from 8:00 – 9:30, and the rest of the day was occupied with lectures, Georgian language classes, intercultural training, and methodology courses. We finished the scheduled part of the day with dinner and were free from about 8:30 on.

Participants spent their nights according to their remaining energy. Those who were completely sapped by the long day would turn in early. Those with energy or the desire to capitalize on their free time in Tbilisi would go out for a couple of beers or go into the city to eat or browse the curiosities. I’m very pleased to say that we had a well behaved group.

I have been told the world is to end on a Thursday, and so too would end the microcosmic world of our orientation. The only scheduled item that day, aside from meeting in the lobby at 12:30 to be parsed out to our respective host families, was a meeting with an American embassy representative at 11:00. This was optional for non-Americans and strongly encouraged for Americans. I slept in Thursday morning until past ten and was worried about having enough time to pack and prep for my departure. I decided to attend the meeting anyways, which was mercifully short. The diplomat told us a few services offered by the embassy to its citizens, passed out country information printed from their website, and suggested we register with them through the state department website. Having done this before I left the States, I hurried back to my room to finish packing.

I finished with a few minutes to spare and joined the other participants in the lobby. As happens with any intense or trying experience, we had bonded quickly, and it was tough to leave the others so soon. But it was time to spread out throughout the country and teach, as we had come here to do. We were leaving new friends and the safety of fellow English speakers.

The previous day, Tamara had asked the group for two volunteers, one man and one woman, to teach English to police officers for the next month. The announcement landed acridly on most ears, mine included, because we were supposed to have the next month off until school started in late September. Ashley, a driven woman from Toronto, jumped at the chance to beef up her resume. A male volunteer was slower in coming. Eventually, I decided to take the job. My reasons were as follows: 1) I am one of the few volunteers who signed up for a year, so, although I’ll be missing out on some time to travel now, I should have plenty of opportunities. 2) The assignment was in Kazbegi, a mountainous region; I wanted very much to stay in the mountains. 3) I would get a trial run in Georgia before I met my host family and my students. It would be better to make blunders in a transitional setting than in my permanent village. 4) I was not opposed to having more beef on my resume.

So, back to the hotel lobby: Ashley and myself would be taken by a police officer to the police academy in Tbilisi. We would get a little more information about the assignment, and then I would be driven on the Kazbegi. Ashley’s assignment would be in Tbilisi.

We were nearly the first to go. Justina, a participant from Alabama, left before we did, but without drawing attention to herself. She just kind of left. Ashley and I demanded slightly more fanfare. We took a few pictures, hugged and shook some hands, and then we loaded up the police truck. It took me just over a week in Georgia to get hauled away by the police.

At the police academy, Ashley and I were fed in the cantina and then given two separate speeches. The first by an American volunteer who has been in the country for over a year. He was cynical and not overly likable. Our inexperience in the country made us comparable to children in his eyes. He did, however, give us some good advice. The kind of stuff that TLG staffers might not readily divulge. The second speech was from a Georgian officer, I think he coordinates the police program, and it was just a follow up. He did warn me about alcoholism and rowdy men in the Kazbegi region. He advised me to keep my distance and stay sober. I was warned against drinking chacha (Georgian moonshine). This was the end of my training to teach police officers. In actuality, all I had was the books I was to teach from and the unknown of Kazbegi looming before me like a ghostly mountain.

I hopped back into the car with Irakli, the officer from Kazbegi who had come to retrieve me, and we were off.

The drive to Kazbegi was very scenic. When you drive out of Tbilisi, it’s not like leaving a major American city. You don’t drive through suburbia. Essentially, there is an end to the city and then village life begins. We wove our way along the hilly roads, the hills becoming larger and more mountainous with every kilometer. Irakli would point out the names of villages and any little bit of trivia that would come to him and that he could express in English. His English was not great, but it was still much better than that of most Georgians. We exhausted the pleasantries very quickly (he is married with two children) and then much of the ride was more or less in silence. We made a couple stops along the way. Each time there was some sort of detour, I thought he was lost. We wound our way up into a village and into rough backroads. He stopped at a house and went to speak with the residents. I thought he was asking directions, but it turned out that he was picking up some sort of paperwork. The next stop was at a small police outpost closer to Kazbegi, where he picked up some unidentifiable gear in a plastic bag from the officer on duty there. After we left the outpost, it wasn’t long before I saw some sort of amphitheater in the grass off of the road. It was the only structure in sight. As we drove around the bend, I saw people gathered at the roadside not far from the amphitheater. As we approached the small crowd, I was about to ask about the structure, but we were flagged down by the group. We stopped, and, looking out of his window, Irakli said, “Bus accident.”

I got out of the truck and realized that a bus had tumbled from the mountain pass onto the grass below, about a 25 foot drop. Injured passengers were being attended to by others. There was a great sprawl of people on the grass. A man who I assumed to be a Russian tourist walked up to me said, “You speak English?”

“Yes.”

“There was an accident. Two people are injured. It’s ok.”

I saw a rope being thrown down to the passengers, and a few of the uninjured or lightly injured were guiding themselves onto the road using the rope. My mind was still trying to negotiate the dissonance between the statements “two people are injured” and “it’s ok.” More police were arriving, and it seemed that Irakli was satisfied that we could leave. This was not a scene for a Western guest.

We switched cars from a big Toyota pickup to a low to the ground Subaru and got back onto the rugged road. We had to drive through about 10 km of really awful roads, which was especially arduous in the Subaru. If I had been nervous about the drop-offs on either side of the road before, my worry had been exponentially multiplied by the crash I had just seen.

In about twenty minutes we arrived in Kazbegi. I did not know we had arrived until we pulled into a police station and I asked, “Is this it?” We went inside, and I began waiting on news of which police officer would be housing me. A fifteen minute wait turned into an hour. Irakli said that it was because everyone was tending to the bus accident. They would arrive shortly. I continued to wait. It was awkward among the policemen. I questioned why I was there. Only one other officer had any basic English, and the rest seemed to eye me with distrust. I would have loved to know what they were saying about me. I think I earned a bit of respect when I showed them that I could read the Georgian alphabet phonetically. I went up to the wanted posters in the main room of the station and pronounced the Georgian word for “wanted” by sounding it out. I projected an overall air of confidence to stake out my ground in the place. I would be teaching here for a month, after all. If I was to be “Marki Mas”–Mr. Mark or teacher Mark–I would need at least a modicum of respect.

Eventually, after about three hours, the head officer arrived. His name was Irakli as well, and he spoke no English. I followed the two Iraklis into the chief’s office, where I was offered juice. We sat down to talk about the lessons. It was obvious that they had as little knowledge about what was going on as I did. They asked me how often I wanted to have classes and for how long. I had no earthly idea. I’m a lowly volunteer with no real classroom teaching experience. I was supposed to be delivered into a structured environment. I was supposed to blow their minds with my mere American aura. So much for that. I suggested an hour lesson three times per week starting Monday.

I will probably increase it. I only have a month here, and I want to accomplish something. But I was blindsided by my need to set up the schedule, having learned only the day before that I would even be in this remote mountain village. I didn’t want to set myself up for failure with long, daily lessons. I decided the first week would be an adjustment period.

Another officer joined us in the room as our conversation was wrapping up, and he turned on the television: Georgian news modeled on our own format. There was a male anchor and a female anchor sitting at a proper news desk, and they checked in with field reporters for in-depth coverage. One of the stories on the slate: the bus crash on the mountain pass. I watched footage of six paramedics carrying a stretcher up the steep incline. One of the passengers was injured badly enough that they needed to be airlifted to Tbilisi. I felt terrible for this person but also secretly relieved that the resources existed here to airlift an injured person to safety. I’ll have to be carted back through those treacherous passes at least once more, after all.

During this time, the police chief was on the phone. I assumed he was trying to set up my room. I was beginning to suspect that I would not be staying with one of the officers and his family. My suspicion was confirmed when we all loaded into the truck and headed into the darkness of the Georgian night. When you’re heading for an unknown destination where you are to be dropped off alone to sleep, you want a little light pollution. There was none to be had, unfortunately. It was all pitch.

The truck came to a stop, and the officers began to speak in Georgian to a woman on the street. After a short exchange, Irakli, who was sitting in the backseat of the truck with me, scooted to the middle, and the woman got in the truck on the other side of him. The more the merrier, I thought.

We drove out of the village proper and headed up a dark and gravely mountain road. I could see very little. We made a couple of turns, and then I was ushered out of the car. The officers knocked on the door of a dark cottage. A light flipped on, and an old woman appeared at the door. She was a woman of about seventy and looked the proverbial peasant. She motioned us to go around a guest house, and she met us at the guest house door. Everyone came inside: the police officers, the woman we had picked up, and the old woman. I was shown a pleasant looking room, a decent bathroom with running water (cold), and light switches. I was completely satisfied.

They asked me if they could get me anything; tea, coffee, food? No, thank you. I had not eaten a proper dinner, but I was tired from the long day and anxious to turn in. I shook hands with all of the men, and then the woman we had picked up walked over and shook my hand. She was introduced to me as the town doctor. She spoke no English. “Sasiamovnoa,” I said. Nice to meet you.

“Chemtvitsats,” she replied. Nice to meet you, too.

After they had left, I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed. The mountains I had watched scroll by all day lit up behind my eyelids. I couldn’t remember ever seeing brighter or more vivid images behind my closed eyes. Tomorrow was my first full day in Kazbegi.