I struggle to extricate myself from the miniscule gap between
the driver’s seat and the first row of the Senaki/Kutaisi marshutka. It doesn’t
help that on top of my regular weekend baggage I am juggling a three-kilo bag
of Mandarins my host mother put in my hands as I was walking out the front
gate.
“Sheni megobrebi,” She said.
When I emerge, Natalie and I are standing in front of a
McDonalds and an enormous Christmas tree. The entrance, sidewalk, and street
are busy with Marshutkas and their passengers, everyone sloshing through the
swampy mud left behind by the melting snow.
In side the McDs it is warm and crowded. Families are
gathered around plastic tables heaped with the remains of happy meal boxes, the
kind you rarely see anymore in the states, with golden arch handles and puzzles
on the sides. We quickly pick out several other TLGers. They are easy to identify,
sitting with their laptops, headphones, and in one case a hard drive, taking
advantage of the free wifi. Between the central heating and the familiar décor,
it feels like the glass doors of the building have opened onto a little piece
of America. The families, music, and smells all lending themselves to a busy
December afternoon in any mid-America mall.
Natalie and I order some fries and settle in to wait for the
rest of the group to convene. We, our entire circle of friends from orientation
(The Barefoot Club), are gathering for the weekend before we begin to disperse
for the winter holiday, some of us returning home for good.
Natalie and I are soon joined by Eric, who we haven’t seen
since orientation, and later by our friend Gus. So when Adam, Aly, and Elie
arrive on the Zugdidi Marshutka, there is a messy smattering of greetings as we
trip over each other’s bags and bump into other customers while moving to
embrace one another.
From the Mcdonalds we pile on a bus heading to the other
side of town where Nikole, Eteri, Eamon, Mushood, and Nick are waiting for us
at a restaurant. Since there are few street names, and even fewer addresses in
this country, our directions are to exit the bus once we have crossed the
second bridge. When we arrive they have set us a long table on the top floor of
the restaurant. The food is good. We sing Christmas songs, whistle the tune
from The Andy Griffith Show, and
generally catch up catch up with our collective experiences throughout the
country.
At the end of the meal it’s back to the home-stay (but first
we stop to buy…can you guess…Snickers and beer) where we play Rummy and Nardi
in a lounge set up like the sitting room of someone’s home, complete with
armchairs, couch and dinning table.
On Saturday we all set out to explore the city, no particular
destination. We stop for fried pastries and khachapuri at a road stand before
making our way toward one of the historical sites in the city, an old church
which is being restored after a fire and bombing, though I couldn’t say for
sure the order they happened in. Kutaisi is a sprawling city with windings
roads and dark walkways built under the overhanging buildings. It’s grown around a wide river and we cross
several bridges that look out over clear rushing water and pale river rock
bordered by houses and businesses precariously perched over the deep river bed.
As we walk we scrape together mushy, grey snowballs from the
side of the road, and chase each other through streets line with cobblestones
and river rocks. When we stop at a small church we notice sitting that the top
of a set of cement steps, the priest poses for pictures with us, and presents
us with two liters of home made wine.
When we aren’t walking the city, or crowded around some
Khachapuri at a local restaurant, we gather in a back room of the home-stay where
there is a small table and wood-burning stove. Some people drink, others play
nardi, and the rest of us indulge in some much needed English conversation. We
are all excited for the up coming break: some of us traveling during our time
off, others returning home to enjoy hot showers and central heating.
After goodbyes Sunday morning, Natalie and I are riding
alone back to the village. It was a bit of a late night for some of the group,
and I am holding onto one of Natalie’s jacket sleeves to keep her from leaning
to far into her neighbor’s lap as she sleeps. The remaining snow on the houses
and hills that roll by makes everything seem familiar, like home, but a home
that is distinctly different and separate from the security and warmth of the
group of friends we have just left. I know then, that this home, the one I have
constructed from my new group of friends, is one that I won’t be able to return
to, not really. We will never be the same group navigating our way through a
new, strange, and sometimes overwhelming country.
We were fast friends, clinging to one another for comfort,
support, and an outlet for English conversation. The familiarity and intimacy
that grew between us so quickly is difficult to explain to those outside the
new world we had been thrown into. The relationships we formed with each other
developed into a kind of bubble, a thin film separating us from the foreign
paradigm that surrounded us.
Looking out the window of the marshutka I sense, for the
first time, the absence of the protective barrier my friends formed. It feels
raw, like a kind of nakedness, and I am especially relieved when I arrive back
at my host family’s house. Another half home, and yet, I am always comforted by
the toothless grin my host mother gives me when I return from a weekend away. It
is warm enough today that I open the windows to let in some sun and plop down
on the bed next to Irma to hear about her weekend in the village.
