I have been riding the bus in Georgia. Since taxis are too much hassle and the Bradt guidebook (infinitely more helpful than the Lonely Planet) has a translated list of some bus routes in Tbilisi, I decided to be brave and hop on a bus that I couldn't be sure would go anywhere near where I wanted to go. At 0.20 lari/7 pence a go it seemed like a better deal. No one else seems to ride the bus as there is no website explaining routes so unless you can read Georgian (which I assure you, you cannot) it's fairly hopeless.
My first trip on the 87 (bus numbers quoted with the intent of being helpful to anyone in the same situation but without the guidebook) which goes from the main road near the flat, Chavchavadze Avenue (which seems to have at least 3 different pronunciations so I have been reduced to feebly uttering Chavchav...and then petering out. At least it's memorable) was uneventful. The bus went along Rustaveli Avenue, the main street in Tblisi which is very reminiscent of a 1998 Gedimino in Vilnius, complete with United Colours of Beneton and not much else.
My trip back involved taking the 21 which goes from Rustaveli back up to Chavchavadze via a few confusing backstreets. I got on with my very large headphones on, which automatically cause people to stare, even if I'm in blonde friendly territory. I bought them because they block out plane noise, car noise, and screaming children - therefore they go everywhere with me. However, they also clearly identified me as a foreigner even if the gold trainers and dashing blonde locks didn't. Presumably the few foreigners in Tbilisi have drivers or cars (of the big, off-road type too) so don't take the bus.
I sat down next to a middle aged woman who unabashedly and open-mouthedly stared at me. I tried to out stare her but she has having none of it. Eventually, she came out with, 'we are on a bus.' Perhaps she was practising her conjugation, but this was not the most helpful comment in the world.
'Mmm,' I offered.
'You are an English girl on a bus,' she supplied. I had half a mind to jump up in surprise and demand to be let off, but instead I decided to be friendly.
'Yes, I'm visiting Tbilisi,' I tried.
We discovered, with the rest of the bus listening in, that I liked it here, and I hadn't even stumbled on the bus by mistake, but knew not only where I was going, but how to use them because there are buses in England too.
She sniffed at this. Clearly English buses were nothing on the shining yellow Georgian contraptions.
As I got up to get off, she gave me a parting comment which I believe will stay with me forever.
'When you get back to England, you can tell people that you spoke with a Georgian woman on a bus.'
And I will. Genius.
My next bus ordeal happened this afternoon. I alighted onto the 87 to go back home from Freedom Square, assuming it would take a similar route along Rustaveli. It did not. I have just read in the guidebook that in fact it went along Kostavas, Gamsakhurdias, Vazha-Pshavela Avenue, and Tamarashvilis before getting to the familiar territory of Chavchavadze. And this was lucky - I was only able to recognise Chavchavadze from the other end because on my first day in Tbilisi I walked all the way along it until I approached a motorway, sure that any second the old town would pop up from behind a corner. It did not.
Anyway, at first I panicked at being on a bus hurtling into strange streets of Soviet blocks and being driven by the world's angriest bus driver - I spent the first half of the journey being offended that everyone was beeping at my bus before realising it was the driver beeping at everyone else. At one point he produced a crowbar (every angry driver's weapon of choice) and shook it at a marshrutka driver for attempting to drive in the next lane.
But then I had bigger problems. A middle aged woman had sat down next to me as my tour of Tbilisi began. I didn't pay much attention to her until she began to slide across the seat and pin me to the wall. Unfortunately, I don't know the Georgian for 'please stop squashing me against the side of this bus when you have ample seating space on your side' but I doubt it would have been in the guidebook anyway. Not that I could reach it, as one arm was trapped against the side of the bus and the other in the woman's considerable bulk. I decided she was just trying to get a view out of the window and remained still, hoping she would notice I was under her, sweating nervously.
Not only did she not notice me, but she also added her hand to my thigh without even acknowledging me. I was flabbergasted, and a little offended that I was being used as her handrest without even the faintest admittance of my presence. There was literally nothing I could say, so instead I began to babble nervously, in a unique English-Russian-German combination and decided it would be best to get off the bus. She opened a magazine and began doing a sudoku, apparently unaware that there was a gibbering girl cowering under her bosom. I wrenched free my arm and gestured hopelessly at the door. She was uninterested by this pitiful response to what was either flirting that she was too shy to acknowledge or anger that I was in her seat.
I looked round the bus for help, but this either led me to smacking my head into her considerable bosoms or noting three teenagers sniggering at me. The rest of the bus were looking on with interest, evidently intruiged to see how I was going to get out.
Eventually I wrenched my arm free and attempted to stand up, before a sudden lurch of the bus threw me back down, half on her lap. She glanced up, clearly irritated that the bus had jogged this foreign idiot onto her (whereas, in my opinion, it was the other way around) but failed to register me. I tapped her shoulder, and in my best British awkward polite, asked her if I could get out, with much hand gesturing. She looked at me with, as Bill Bryson correctly identifies, 'the sort of contempt reserved for someone who has just tried to fart in your handbag' and ignored me, forcing me to attempt to climb over her. This resulted in a sort of impromptu lapdance, which, effectively, made me her bitch.
Finally free, I approached the front of the bus, very aware that all the passengers were watching me to see what I was going to make of the situation, and without warning the angry driver swerved over to the pavement for an invisible bus stop. Realising I had no idea where we were still, I babbled nervously at the driver who quite openly wanted me, and perhaps all passengers, off his bus. I tried to get out of the way of the alighting passengers, but, in my still nervous state, I hopped onto what I thought was an empty seat but contained two put-out looking young women in suits.
I slunk to an empty seat in shame. By then I would not have been surprised if the other passengers had a pool going to see whose lap I would try to sit on next. I spent the rest of the journey trying to hide my face in my handbag, wondering if this was some kind of sick Georgian bus initiation ceremony. This was confirmed by, when I got off the bus, a man sitting at the front uttering sinisterly to me in curiously perfect English, 'You have ridden the bus in Georgia.'
Perhaps this is the Georgian's 'die Affe ist auf dem Tisch,' or the most memorable sentence you learn in your language lessons at school, but to me it has become some kind of test of individual strength. And I have failed. This is probably why no other foreigners take the bus in Georgia.
In any case, those who are braving the bus system in Tbilisi should find it fairly easy, just watch out for a large woman in a black dress doing su doku on the 87.
Broken-biscuit cake was the order of the day. Allow me to explain.
In Georgia, nay, east of Germany and west of the Urals, extending down the Black Sea and even into the middle east, exists a phenomenon called the biscuit. A gross misinterpretation of the western cookie, this is a dry, floury, crumbly, often nutty lump sold in bins, buckets and crumbling cardboard across Eastern Europe and extending into Greece, Egypt and Lebanon. Georgia is a country particularly plagued by these beasts and by the time of my arrival, something had to be done. Broken biscuit cake, suggested mother. This was a concept unknown to the locals, yet readily embraced by Lithuanians who had, by then, cottoned on to the idea of making these crumbly lumps more appetising. Sold in great clingfilm-wrapped slabs in the supermarket, tinginys, is a modern staple in the Lithuanian diet. I was commissioned to create some tinginys and bring it to the office to exercise the versatility of the dry biscuit. I even brought out some butter-based biscuits and shortbread to tide the Georgians over until the tinginys has been created.
Since supermarkets have not yet properly come to Tbilisi, and the Tesco invasion has yet to occur, mother's flat was ill-equipped to cope with being the site of my explosive baking style. No tray, no scales, no margarine and no biscuits meant my plans were halted. Never fear, advised mother, hop in a taxi to Goodwill.
Getting to Goodwill was the first problem; with little to no Russian on my part, a map labelled in English that didn't extend to Goodwill territory, and taxi drivers unlikely to understand, I attempted three different taxi drivers before getting out, each time a little further down the road, becoming more dejected and slightly paranoid that Goodwill did not exist. Fourth time lucky, as they say, and I was able to communicate with the driver that Goodwill was 'didi' or big (Georgian), and 'gelb,' yellow (German). Off we went.
And off we were still going, 25 minutes later, speeding along a highway out of the city and towards some ominous looking mountains. I had been warned that Goodwill was outside the city but I was suddenly very aware that we were very much outside the city and careening off to the sticks of god knows where. Still, I comforted myself that if the taxi driver intended to rob me, I had less than £50 in my bank account and pittance in my purse, and my mobile is held together with sellotape, so the joke would be on him. Anyway, there was no need to panic as we soon pulled up at the big gelb and green shed that is Goodwill. He charged me a very cheap 6 lari (£2) but as he didn't have change I let him have 10 (£3.50). Quite the bargain.
The produce I inspected seemed to be a combination of French and German - French frozen meat (and American frozen turkeys - Goodwill is very close to the American embassy), German everything else.
Looking for the dry biscuit I was promised I would find in every nook and cranny of a Georgian shop, I found nothing but German butter cookies. Seriously, shelf upon shelf of German biscuits, all of the non-dry variety. I had been duped! Also filling half the supermarket was some mysterious Russian-made Cadburys selection boxes that I had never seen before (Russians are notorious for pirating DVDs, CDs and software, could it now be that they are now pirating chocolate?).
I noticed I was being followed when I started to wander away from the jams and tea and over towards the back of the shop which suddenly turned into a rather sparse B&Q. Clearly, each shop employee was employed an area of the shop floor to patrol and was restricted to their area. Since they could not leave their area and clearly had me down as a suspicious type, they would go over to the colleague employed to patrol the next area, whisper that they were to follow me, and then the next one would dawdle behind me, gawping at my face piercings and blonde hair like the rest. They clearly had not been trained in subtlety when following a potential threat as, as soon as I would wheel round to catch them, they would grab the nearest product off the shelf and take a great and sudden interest in it. I felt sorry for the man in the tents section.
Still, the B&Q section of the shop was very well equipped for what it was. It even had the last Mac desktop which, being a Mac convert now, I was very impressed with. I was able to spot office supplies for mother as well as a place to buy a new camera along with your bread and milk. However, despite having every lightbulb under the sun, I could not trace an extension lead, and when I asked one of my Goodwill employee stalkers for help, they were having none of it. Georgians, like the French, seem to find that not speaking their language is your problem, not theirs. I can't say I blame them really, as I have to put up with it working in the tourist section of a bookshop. Mind you, it's very hard to mime extension lead, so don't try it for charades.
So that was my trip to Goodwill. It's wonderful, as long as you can read German and don't mind the unique customer care that Georgians offer.
Searching for things about Georgia online I came across this video and found it immensely entertaining.
First of all, Khachapuri is a Georgian staple food, eaten at least 8 times a day. It's unleavened Georgian bread made with local white cheese and is delicious the first few times, and then you begin to resent it for being the only Georgian word you know so therefore the only thing you can point at in the bakery. More extreme versions exist, with egg and butter, like this (or as mother and I have been practising - we know three Georgian words and we know them damn well - like es. Before we knew Georgian for this, we used Greek afta. Before afta came shita - Lithuanian and I am hoping to introduce sorrewa which I think is Japanese for 'something, over there'. Follow my jabbing finger, in other words).
Second of all, it's in Japanese. It's a Japanese cookery video for making Georgian bread. This makes me rock back and forwards in my seat with mirth. Japanese don't really do bread (they don't really go for ovens either), they go more for the steamed tofu and rice approach. This isn't a stereotype by the way - I suffered two weeks of traditional Japanese cafeteria cuisine and am now an expert on the subject. Don't accuse me of generalising - I do my research.
Third of all, Japanese is probably the best language to have on as a background noise, because you pick up excellent new words to practise. With this video on, mother and I picked up oven-ru, bureadu, and my favourite bakingu pow-duh.
Forth, just watch the opening credits. Whoever came up with the graphics content for this one is probably renowned in Japanese TV circles. Naturally, a cooking program should have a series of punk plastic baby heads rotating on the screen. Silly everyone else for not making that connection. Also, I like that the Japanese custom of bowing is extended to most honourable TV viewer. I felt special watching it, as if it was made just for me. And in many ways, I feel like it has been.
Anyway, without further adieu, I present to you this inexplicable but wonderful video.
Gamarjoba dan Kartuli! Hello from Georgia.
After a nightmare trip (involving the check in supervisor at Heathrow having a meltdown and running off, demanding that no one talk to her, a ten minute sprint through departures to catch a flight, a three hour thirsty transit in Munich where I couldn't buy a drink for love nor money as apparently no one but Oxford will accept Visa Electron, and a 2 hour flight next to a man with a sweating disorder) I arrived in Tbilisi to visit the resident mother. Left alone to explore the city by day and entertaining the colleagues and old friends in the evening, Georgia has proven to be many things - none of which are described in the guidebook.
First of all, it does not warn you about how you will not look like a Georgian therefore everyone will stare. By definition, Georgians do not have lip piercings, blonde hair, coloured clothes or footwear that is neither gold nor flat. In fact, Georgians are a walking mass of dark haired, black suited, stilletto'ed starers. I have been looked up and down by men and women alike since the moment I set foot off the plane. At first it made me very insecure and I spent my days worrying I had something on my face or feeling embarrassed. The second day I succumbed to the Georgian uniform and wore black. I was still stared at. The third day I gave up and stared back, but it didn't faze them. This also had the unhelpful side effect of taxis stopping next to me every five minutes, assuming that, within the three seconds of eye contact I had given them, I needed to be shouted at in alternately Georgian and Russian.
The guidebook doesn't spare a word to describing how taxi drivers here are remarkably overeager which is a nice change from England, where they are expensive, and Greece, where they feel that they are doing you a massive favour by even allowing you to sit in their stinking yellow smoke boxes. Whenever I whip out my guidebook with map (English labelled; Georgian looks like this and it is impossible to navigate your way round the city or know where you are) a taxi will slow down and assume I need a lift. The one time I attempted to show a taxi driver where I wanted to go on my map, he thrust it back at me and he and his taxi driving mates discussed how stupid I was to give them a map of a completely different country. Silly me.
pavements. I have succumbed by directing all taxis to the main university building, 10 minutes from the flat, and angering them when I direct them past in in pigeon Russian and expressive hand gestures. Perhaps Georgians stare because they all think I'm stupid. Well, gold shoes weren't the best idea.
Eventually the men pushed off and I was left alone to enjoy my book and lunch. However, when it came to settling the bill, I was informed (through hand gestures, my combination of bad Russian and their bad English means I'm now fluent in mime) that the men had paid my bill. This is very impressive stuff. Georgia is, therefore, the ideal destination for the female student.
Another disadvantage of a male-written guidebook is that it cannot warn you about the potential marriages Georgia may decide it wants you to have. Again, sitting on my own in a cafe, minding my own business, when I am approached by the elected representative of a group of Georgians who had been discussing my foreignness at a nearby table. He asked me where my husband was. At my age this is very entertaining and I chuckled as I told him that there was no husband. He was aghast. Not even a boyfriend, I assured him. He took this information back to his friends to discuss. I went back to my book.
Ten minutes later my new friend is back. We confirm that I am English and that I even know where London is. Then he decides that we will be married. I openly laughed at him, assuming this was a good joke. The poor man looked crushed. He looked confused that I wouldn't want to marry him. Then he told me the plan he and his friends had concocted: I would return to England and he would arrive later, and call me when he did. He and his friends would then meet up with me and my friends and we would all have some kind of perverse mass wedding.
All the way through this he appeared to be completely serious, and he seemed to be getting more and more upset the more I laughed. When I said maybe, he immediately whipped out his mobile for me to write down my number on.
Since it was clear he was not going to go away, I gave him a fake number and assured we would be happily married by the end of the year.
His plan was fatally flawed by the fact that I'm sure his mother would not be pleased to find her son marrying an English girl, and an agnostic at that. However, being a Georgian, he didn't expect me to pay for his flight over which was a plus. And I'm sure Georgian weddings are fun.
Let me know if you're looking for 5 Georgian husbands in a hurry. Or maybe I should just send them to the authors of the guidebooks.
