My path initially took me to Samtredia (pop. 28,000) where I stayed with a friend’s host family for five days. It was there were I got an honest view of the day-to-day life and the identity of those in the Georgian countryside. It was also were I was given my Georgian name: ”Jasoni”.
During the Soviet era Samtredia had a lot going for it. Not only was it a major rail hub in the Southern Caucasus, it also had a textile mill and a tea and a preserves factory that kept the region employed. The region now gets by on account of the still functioning railroad, a series of small cottage industries and what I can only assume is a thriving alchemy practice.
While jobs are scarce, people manage to get by. For those lucky enough to have land, they subsist upon their gardens and livestock. James’ family is a decent landholder and both parents are employed—Mako, the father, is employed as an engineer at the railroad and Maggie, the mother, is a teacher at Public School 2.
While Portland, Oregon struggles to introduce urban farming to quell liberal guilt, Georgia produces most of its produce organically and locally because there is no other option. James’ family grows their own vegetables, raises chickens, makes their own cheese and curd and have a milking cow. Everything we ate, except for sugar, candy and flour, was produced on site. Even the drinking water was captured rainwater. The food was simple and delicious, if not overly abundant with dill and parsley.
When we wanted to treat ourselves, we would walk to the stand four houses down and buy candy, soda or Bojurmi—Stalin’s favorite mineral water. But beyond that there was little reason to buy food, which was good because the garden had more diverse offerings than the store did.
I attempted to watch some of the local news while there. Large anti-government and anti-West protests were taking place in Batumi and Tbilisi (both places I would visit later that week). I’d never been in a country that was actively protesting anything I identified as, and interestingly I was not concerned for my safety.
The opposition in Georgia is disjointed and predominantly run by Russian shills. The protests were supposed to culminate in the “Day of Rage” that would culminate with the ousting of the current pro-West president Mikhail Saakashvili and my arrival in Tbilisi. The goal was replace him with one of Saakashvili’s old ministers currently exiled in France. Realizing that Georgia wasn’t going to be the next Tahrir Square, the exiled minister decided summer in Paris was more enticing than a Georgian prison sentence—he was tried in absentia and convicted on various corruption charges. Ultimately, there was no Day of Rage or coup to 6,000 unemployed protesters’ disappointment.
The women of the household were watching too and when the protest news became too dreary, they changed the TV to the less upbeat eulogy channel. Why a channel that only talks about those that recently died is preferable to a more or less peaceful protest was not clear to me. This channel was interjected with Russian pop music videos. Watching two Georgian woman, one 82 years old, flip through these channels was an exercise in non-sequiturs and cultural differences that I’m not clever enough to understand.
The 82 year old is Angela. The woman that embodies most stereotypes I have about older women that survived the losing side of the Cold War. She also embodies the bulk of Georgia’s Soviet (and all of its post-Soviet) history. Growing up near Samtredia, she lost a brother to Stalin’s purges and her husband died this past year. Even with a warn and weathered look she is still a prime provider in the home. She walks tall and seems to always be smiling.
Angela took a liking to me, I think. At the family meals, everyone would eat from the large plates of food in the center of the table. Angela, however, would prepare a plate just for me because she had either fallen for the weary American traveler or was concerned that I was emaciated. In either case, the hospitality was welcomed.
In that vein of hospitality, on one of the nights the patriarch of the family had us drink. I will write more in depth about drinking culture in Georgia later, for now I’ll just relive the moment. I was dutifully warned that drinking in Georgia was unavoidable and intense. I sat down at the table with Mako and James a little nervous of what was to come.
Mako entered the room with a medium sized crystal decanter full to the brim with a clear substance.This was chacha. The name comes from the Georgian word “cha” for “well”; chacha was the only time in my life where a well drink would have been preferable. Made on site, chacha is the Georgian version of the Italian pumice wine Grappa. Chacha burns and each additional shot only added fuel to the fire engulfing my throat, stomach and mouth. Each round is preceded with a toast to something. Guests, nations, women. Nothing was left untoasted. Perhaps my favorite toast was the proud but culturally relativistic “I don’t know about America, but in Georgia our women raise our children and keep our homes. Cheers.”
After the final toasts—like a bend in the space-time continuum, in Georgia you can have more than one final toast—I made it to bed and slept a restful chacha induced slumber. The sleep was much needed as the next day I took on a group of the neighborhood kids at soccer. Near a defunct warehouse, the kids had set up a small, cement pitch between a rusty cement and barbed wire cage and a storage unit with cement pillars that acted as goal posts. Georgian kids, if asked, will tell you their favorite soccer player is either Lionel Messi or Christano Ronaldo and a vicious debate will ensue if there is a detractor. My goal was clear: topple Messi and Ronaldo and replace with Jasoni.
Even with limited English these kids loved to taunt and talk back as my team of three kids no older than 12 whooped on the high schoolers. While I was enjoying the exercise and camaraderie of my young team, arguably something better was happening.
A day later, on another Matruska ride James had pointed out that by spending a few hours with those kids I did more for America’s impression in Georgia than anything State or Defense could have thrown together. By no means do I want to appear to think of myself as a one-man diplomatic corps, but I think James had a point.
Georgia is pinned between a Russian past and a Western future with no clear destiny. At some point, these children will become active in Georgian society and inevitably the tug-of-war between identifying with Russia or the West will rear its head. Most of these children have never met a Russian personally—their experience with Russians was a five day war in 2008—yet now they have met multiple Americans and will continue to meet more Americans as they are placed in schools throughout the country. While certainly one night of soccer with an American is not a deciding factor to a critical national issue, it very well could play into their decision making process as a small factor. Again, I don’t believe that I alone am convincing these children to look West for their futures, but the more positive personal connections we can make with nations like Georgia, the more promising our joint futures can become.
I loved my time in Samtredia. The warmth of the people continued to radiate and to become personally acquainted with a local family was truly an unparalleled experience. And no matter what path the people of Georgia take to their future, I hope that they will not lose themselves in the process. While undoubtedly there is a need for genuine change and objective improvement in Georgia, I just hope that their kindness and unique place in the world is not eroded as they venture forward.
During the Soviet era Samtredia had a lot going for it. Not only was it a major rail hub in the Southern Caucasus, it also had a textile mill and a tea and a preserves factory that kept the region employed. The region now gets by on account of the still functioning railroad, a series of small cottage industries and what I can only assume is a thriving alchemy practice.
While jobs are scarce, people manage to get by. For those lucky enough to have land, they subsist upon their gardens and livestock. James’ family is a decent landholder and both parents are employed—Mako, the father, is employed as an engineer at the railroad and Maggie, the mother, is a teacher at Public School 2.
While Portland, Oregon struggles to introduce urban farming to quell liberal guilt, Georgia produces most of its produce organically and locally because there is no other option. James’ family grows their own vegetables, raises chickens, makes their own cheese and curd and have a milking cow. Everything we ate, except for sugar, candy and flour, was produced on site. Even the drinking water was captured rainwater. The food was simple and delicious, if not overly abundant with dill and parsley.
When we wanted to treat ourselves, we would walk to the stand four houses down and buy candy, soda or Bojurmi—Stalin’s favorite mineral water. But beyond that there was little reason to buy food, which was good because the garden had more diverse offerings than the store did.
I attempted to watch some of the local news while there. Large anti-government and anti-West protests were taking place in Batumi and Tbilisi (both places I would visit later that week). I’d never been in a country that was actively protesting anything I identified as, and interestingly I was not concerned for my safety.
The opposition in Georgia is disjointed and predominantly run by Russian shills. The protests were supposed to culminate in the “Day of Rage” that would culminate with the ousting of the current pro-West president Mikhail Saakashvili and my arrival in Tbilisi. The goal was replace him with one of Saakashvili’s old ministers currently exiled in France. Realizing that Georgia wasn’t going to be the next Tahrir Square, the exiled minister decided summer in Paris was more enticing than a Georgian prison sentence—he was tried in absentia and convicted on various corruption charges. Ultimately, there was no Day of Rage or coup to 6,000 unemployed protesters’ disappointment.
The women of the household were watching too and when the protest news became too dreary, they changed the TV to the less upbeat eulogy channel. Why a channel that only talks about those that recently died is preferable to a more or less peaceful protest was not clear to me. This channel was interjected with Russian pop music videos. Watching two Georgian woman, one 82 years old, flip through these channels was an exercise in non-sequiturs and cultural differences that I’m not clever enough to understand.
The 82 year old is Angela. The woman that embodies most stereotypes I have about older women that survived the losing side of the Cold War. She also embodies the bulk of Georgia’s Soviet (and all of its post-Soviet) history. Growing up near Samtredia, she lost a brother to Stalin’s purges and her husband died this past year. Even with a warn and weathered look she is still a prime provider in the home. She walks tall and seems to always be smiling.
Angela took a liking to me, I think. At the family meals, everyone would eat from the large plates of food in the center of the table. Angela, however, would prepare a plate just for me because she had either fallen for the weary American traveler or was concerned that I was emaciated. In either case, the hospitality was welcomed.
In that vein of hospitality, on one of the nights the patriarch of the family had us drink. I will write more in depth about drinking culture in Georgia later, for now I’ll just relive the moment. I was dutifully warned that drinking in Georgia was unavoidable and intense. I sat down at the table with Mako and James a little nervous of what was to come.
Mako entered the room with a medium sized crystal decanter full to the brim with a clear substance.This was chacha. The name comes from the Georgian word “cha” for “well”; chacha was the only time in my life where a well drink would have been preferable. Made on site, chacha is the Georgian version of the Italian pumice wine Grappa. Chacha burns and each additional shot only added fuel to the fire engulfing my throat, stomach and mouth. Each round is preceded with a toast to something. Guests, nations, women. Nothing was left untoasted. Perhaps my favorite toast was the proud but culturally relativistic “I don’t know about America, but in Georgia our women raise our children and keep our homes. Cheers.”
After the final toasts—like a bend in the space-time continuum, in Georgia you can have more than one final toast—I made it to bed and slept a restful chacha induced slumber. The sleep was much needed as the next day I took on a group of the neighborhood kids at soccer. Near a defunct warehouse, the kids had set up a small, cement pitch between a rusty cement and barbed wire cage and a storage unit with cement pillars that acted as goal posts. Georgian kids, if asked, will tell you their favorite soccer player is either Lionel Messi or Christano Ronaldo and a vicious debate will ensue if there is a detractor. My goal was clear: topple Messi and Ronaldo and replace with Jasoni.
Even with limited English these kids loved to taunt and talk back as my team of three kids no older than 12 whooped on the high schoolers. While I was enjoying the exercise and camaraderie of my young team, arguably something better was happening.
A day later, on another Matruska ride James had pointed out that by spending a few hours with those kids I did more for America’s impression in Georgia than anything State or Defense could have thrown together. By no means do I want to appear to think of myself as a one-man diplomatic corps, but I think James had a point.
Georgia is pinned between a Russian past and a Western future with no clear destiny. At some point, these children will become active in Georgian society and inevitably the tug-of-war between identifying with Russia or the West will rear its head. Most of these children have never met a Russian personally—their experience with Russians was a five day war in 2008—yet now they have met multiple Americans and will continue to meet more Americans as they are placed in schools throughout the country. While certainly one night of soccer with an American is not a deciding factor to a critical national issue, it very well could play into their decision making process as a small factor. Again, I don’t believe that I alone am convincing these children to look West for their futures, but the more positive personal connections we can make with nations like Georgia, the more promising our joint futures can become.
I loved my time in Samtredia. The warmth of the people continued to radiate and to become personally acquainted with a local family was truly an unparalleled experience. And no matter what path the people of Georgia take to their future, I hope that they will not lose themselves in the process. While undoubtedly there is a need for genuine change and objective improvement in Georgia, I just hope that their kindness and unique place in the world is not eroded as they venture forward.
