Camping...Georgian Style!

Alright folks, I know my posts are usually straight and to the point, so this time I thought I’d share a story with you. Another volunteer and a good friend of mine, Lauren, will help tell the tale. We both wrote our own perspective of the weekend.

To preface this story, a co-worker of mine caught me off guard one weekend and asked if I’d like to come to the mountains and go camping with his family and close friends. Not knowing of any plausible excuses or reasons to say “No”, I gladly accepted. Lauren was in town at the time, so I dragged her along for moral support. I was told that we needed to be out my front gate at 5 in the morning to be picked up. We both had no idea what we were getting in to. And so our story begins…

Lauren: The day dawned cold and rainy, a perfect day for an outing with lots of random Georgians and the promise of uncertain adventure. Sure, 5 AM seemed like a crazy time to get up, but who was I to question it? After being wedged into the front seat of a marshutka (minivan) and picking up enough family members to stuff the van to its hilt, I knew we were in for a great time when our Georgian host, with a glint in his eyes, smiled and put in the music we would hear for the rest of the trip. I could tell how excited Johnny was, because Shania Twain is one of his favorite artists.

Johnny: Now, who am I to deny that Shania Twain was an integral part of our American music culture...but being bombarded with such hits like "That Don’t Impress Me Much" and "Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?" at full volume, in the buttcrack of morning while trying to decide if shoving mud in my ears would be a better alternative than listening to the Georgians try to sing along with Shania......kinda struck a-way-too-early-in-the-trip-to-already-be-annoyed chord in me. So, after about 4 laps around my town, each time picking up a new family member, camping gear, and whatever else my Georgian friend had up his sleeve...we roll out. Everything started off great, we were enjoying the sights and nature via our front seat venue, mumbling whatever words I could remember of "You're Still the One", and getting amped to eat some food in the great outdoors.

Lauren: As we continued on, we realized why we had to be up so early.  As the hours passed by and the Shania CD was repeated yet again, we recognized that we weren't so much on a trip as a journey.  When paved roads turned to potholed ones, and those turned into straight rocks, we started to get worried.  We also recognized that we were being followed by a trail of cars, effectively turning our driver into the host of a great caravan leading upward into the mountains. Rolling through small Georgian villages whose names were unknown to us, and stopping at random points for reasons which still escape us to this day (BREAD! THERE'S SOME BREAD, FOR THE LOVE OF...PULL OVER, VAIME!), we finally saw the soon-to-be victims being loaded into another marshutka.
 

That's when we picked up the animals.

Johnny: Finally, after traversing Georgia's backyard for close to 5-6 hours in the thick haze and rain, we reached a summit, in which all the Georgians started getting antsy in the back of the marshutka once noticing it. We came to a stop and as we got out, Lauren and I saw an area which looked like a place that could have easily been  Woodstock, Warp Tour, ACL or what have you...but the morning after...and no cool bands. Among all the trash and debris there was a small temple with a small stone wall that surrounded it. As we walked closer, we saw that there were hundreds of melted wax candles on the wall, with the occasional rotten cheesebread to add to the ambiance. In the center of the temple, knelt an old Georgian dude (OGDude) who wielded a big dagger/dirk/pointy thing. All the Georgians we came with walked up to OGDude to pay homage and say some prayers. I am all about cool culture-y, traditional things and found how Georgians "go camping" pretty interesting and insightful. But my innocence was soon crushed when we noticed that the other marshutka following us opened up and two sheep and a cow were herded out of it. It didn't take much thought to put two and two together. The two: being animals and Georgians with knives.

Lauren: If Johnny's trying to convince anyone of his innocence when it comes to killing Georgian animals, he must have quite the lawyer.  I could tell from the giddiness in his gait and the way he documented the murder scene with my camera that he was having quite the "cool culture-y" experience.  I'll spare most of the details, but I watched as the two giant sheep calmly allowed themselves to be walked to their death in a circle, then gently laid down, only to have their throats split with what looked like a sword straight out of Braveheart. At this point, I decided I'd had enough "culture" and walked back to the marshutka to continue reading my book.  Johnny on the other hand, watched with interest as the calf went screaming to its death, splattering blood on more than a few children on the scene. Great, very Cool Hand Luke.

Now there are images and videos on my camera that I can never erase.

Well, technically I can, but as they are emblazoned in my mind, they're never REALLY gone. So it's basically noon in Georgia and we've already been privy to a Shania radio concert (many times in fact!) and witnesses to the death of no less than three animals.  So I'm thinking, this is where the fun begins, right?

*This video is pretty nasty. You've been warned*

Johnny: Lauren quotes that she'll "spare most of the details" because when she saw the animals laid on the grass, she practically scrambled as fast as she could back to the marshutka weeping...ahem...reading her book. So it fell to me to document the event so that I could describe Georgian traditions to anyone who may have an interest. So basically, OGDude walked by the animals and muttered some prayers; all the while you could see the "Oh Sh*t" glare from the sheep and cows face when they noticed he was brandishing his dagger. After the necessities were through, the guy came up to the sheep and crow-hopped into its neck instantly severing it from the body. Now mind you, this guy looks like he could be 165 years old but the torque in his cutting arm said different. Also, two other sheep (from above video) went down in seconds, but when he was cutting the cow...there was some...resistance. And by resistance I mean that blood spewed out all over some portly Georgian children and then the cow got up on its legs (while headless) and started running off. After what I consider some pretty lewd Georgian language, the disposal of the animal heads, and the wiping of cow blood on certain children, we started to pack up. Some of the family members went to do some last minute praying and khatchapuri offering, and the rest were in charge of loading the headless, future meal back into the marsh. Our marshutka was the last to leave but it didn’t take a genius to follow the trail of red on the ground to where everyone else re-located.

Lauren: If you thought the killing of the animals was exciting, wait until you hear about the skinning! Faced with the prospect of being left alone with Georgians I didn’t know, or walking with Johnny to see the animals being taken apart, I opted for the latter.  As most of the blood appeared to have leaked out on the ride over, watching them cut off parts wasn’t so bad. I can’t say the sight and sounds of a small cow’s stomach plopping onto the ground after being thrown out like an empty bag of chips is the greatest thing in the world.

After he’d had his fill of grossness, Johnny said it was ok to walk back to the main site where the eating and feasting would take place.  When we arrived at the campsite, Johnny felt it part of his manly duty to help set up a campfire and carry things around. These pictures stand as testaments that he is trying to look very manly and helpful.

Meat was cooked, both boiled and roasted over open flame, and pre-prepared food came out of various bags and dishes to accompany the copious amounts of wine we would no doubt be drinking. When finally everything was set up, we were ushered to the supra table, where the magic(?) happens.

Johnny: I did feel manly, thank you very much. So yes, camp was setting up, meat was being cooked and huge metal drums were being rolled out of yet another marshutka. I'm sure any of you that have kept up with our past posts would assess that the huge metal drums were filled with nay gas nor water, but wine...and you would indeed be correct. The supra started like any other supra. Some awkwardness in the beginning, some toasts to God and family, some stuffing one's face so one would not have to speak Georgian for a while...the usual. Then as time and booze carried on things eased up and we were all the best of friends. Not only we, the token foreign American guests, but every other hiker who unfortunately decided to walk near us.

Lauren:  We used to think as Americans that we were the only ones sometimes uncomfortable with the extreme measures of Georgian hospitality. It turns out that other Georgians too can become victims of "supra peer pressure." You see, often you may find yourself at a supra where it is impossible to escape, a daunting realization considering that these things usually last for hours.  The unfortunate hikers, perhaps looking for a small bite to eat and a glass of wine or two, found themselves embroiled in an alternate universe where there is an easy way in but rarely a way out. After the requisite number of toasts using glasses, the hardcore among the Georgian men were invited to drink out of kansis (read: animal horns).  Johnny did his fair share, much to the delight of the Georgian men, who probably called him a "brother man" or something to that extent.  Just when we thought the drinking was ending, a new Georgian drinking game was introduced.

Game instructions: Take watermelon, cut in half, and hollow out a hole on one side. Choose a spot on the ground and dig a small hole to put in said watermelon. Place watermelon in hole, fill with wine. One by one, get down in push-up position and drink from the watermelon on the ground. It totally makes sense.

Johnny: After a couple of rounds of "Pushup DON'T Puke", I in fact decided to whisk myself away to the woods so that I could do the latter. Combination of boiled sheep meat, fingernail polish-remover wine, and cheers-ing so hard with my fellow comrades I have found gives me a weak stomach. As I slunk my way back to the supra table I noticed that the watermelon was in shards all over the ground, as Georgian men shouted and/or screamed for no apparent reason, as Lauren sat amongst it all giving me the look of "Ok, I'm done." I couldn't have agree more at that point. So, we find a little knoll overlooking our campsite and pull our sleeping bags out so that we can finally get some much needed sleep. Most of the rest of my portion of the story will be told through snapshots of my memory, pictures taken, and retellings from Lauren...

Lauren: What Johnny missed while he was "away" is that I also had a go at the watermelon, which I was very proud of, considering I was the only lady. I'm sure my push-up form was perfect, since I do them daily before greeting the morning (lies).  Also, let me say that you probably haven't lived until you see a grown man dancing around on the fumes of wine and daydreams before smashing one half of a watermelon onto the hood of his own car.  I got a huge kick out of that, but seeing the effects of the wine on the men and Johnny himself, thought maybe it was time to stop for a while.  Johnny has a funny habit of deciding that after a little too much fun, it's time to wander off and find a place to sleep. In my concern for his health and possible safety, I suggested a spot we had scoped out earlier, perfect for a place to relax and sleep away from the rabblerousing going on below.

Georgian dumplings "Khinkali"

Johnny: In my supra coma, I remember dreaming about being so happy that I was swimming around in the cool Gulf back home, kicking my legs as the water splashed around me and as I…..wait I thought, I am kicking my legs, my real ones…and water is actually splashing around me. Then I hear faint yelling…a little louder now…a little louder. I blink my eyes open and see Lauren soaking wet, shaking me, telling me that it is pouring rain. I come to from my stupor and sure enough, my sleeping bag is filled with rainwater. Being the go-getter that I am, I bolt up, take both mine and Lauren’s sleeping bags and trudge back to the campground looking for warmth and a dry place to sleep. The Georgians spot us and direct us to one of the marshutkas. We towel off and slowly squeeze our way into the van on one of the bench seats. I had my knees bent to my chest, and my head cocked into one of the arm rests trying my hardest to make a most uncomfortable position comfortable (but failing.) I closed my eyes, and all I heard around me were 7 other Georgians in the marshutka making sleeping “noises”. I use the quotes because the sounds coming out of their mouths were not human but a combination of vacuum cleaners sucking up a baby who was suckling a cat’s tail who choking on a rat who was…you get my point.  Somehow, someway, we actually go to sleep again. Fast forward 45 minutes later and queue mental breakdown mode. It is literally 3-4 o’clock in the morning, and I hear the marshutka door slide open and the words, “JOHNNY!!!!! KHINKALI!!!!!!!!!!!!” belted from the top of this dude’s lungs. (Khinkali, if you guys don’t know, are the Georgian style of dumplings…and they go absolute buck-wild when mentioned or are within a one yard radius). Wanting neither to be conscious nor the proposition of sunrise khinkali, I try my hardest to close my eyes again. Thinking that I couldn’t be more tired and agitated (by now, all the Georgians are outside chanting the word khinkali), someone thought it would be a novel idea to insert a particular CD, and loop a particular song in our marshutka and blast it to full volume.


Please if you would, click the link below…turn your speakers up, close your eyes, and imagine walking the thin line between normality and insanity.

Lauren: I woke up to the sound of rain and some fat, cold rain drops on my face. Hoping against hope that this would be a mercifully short shower, I dug deeper down into my sleeping bag.  After a few minutes, I realized that my sleeping bag was getting wetter, and the rain was coming down harder.  Attempting to yell at Johnny evoked such responses as, "What?" "Where am I?" "It's raining!" Telling him that we had to go down hill to find shelter, he then refused to get out of his sleeping bag until he knew where his shoes were.  Locating them among my now wet iPod and phone, we finally trudged down to find our host's wife freaking out and ushering us toward the campfire.  After a cup of water to drink, we are led to the marshutka we arrived in. Luckily for us, there were already approximately 6 other people huddled inside. That meant that in addition to some of the most uncomfortable sleeping positions ever created in the history of mankind, we were treated to various snoring, suckling (seriously, what in the world was that?), and yelling during the night.

Little did we know, it would only get worse.

As Johnny refused to leave the marshutka at 5 AM, despite what appeared to me to be never-ending demands to do so, I wandered into the damp morning air in the hopes that the yelling would stop and I could eat some khinkali before attempting to sleep again.  Unfortunately the Georgians had other ideas.  If you ask a typical Georgian what a great hangover cure is, the majority will tell you that it's more alcohol, typically in the form of some kind of hard liquor. These men were no exception, and refused to let me eat until I took a shot of the cognac, despite my many protests.  I lifted the glass to my nose and the smell alone activated my gag reflex. This was not good.  After a hasty sip and immediately stuffing my face with khinkali made with sheep's meat, I stumbled back to the marshutka a defeated woman. From that point on, I made myself as useless as possible, huddled up away and feeling as though I had arrived at death's door. I dreamed of the day I could sleep again and eat food that hadn't given me the stink eye right before its demise. As I sat drifting in and out of consciousness, I could only think, "This is what sadness tastes like."

Johnny: Upon hearing Lauren eating breakfast outside with everyone consistently asking where I was or if I was ok and hearing the 3rd repeat of yet another hit: "Happy New Year" by ABBA, I decided to risk the former and make myself known. I sat down to a hearty breakfast of sheep khinkali and hard shots of cognac being serenaded by several Georgians singing their own versions of improvised Khinkali anthems...all of which the only lyrics were....."Khinkali." Even the elderly woman next to me was rocking back and forth muttering the word khinkali to no one in particular. I choked down the rest of my meal, curious if the tree who saw my lunch yesterday would get the pleasure of being acquainted with my breakfast as well. The rest of the morning was a blur (more because of my delusional state, then anything else) of khinkali feasting, watching a Georgian burn his arm on khinkali broth, and repetitively being asked if I like khinkali. Finally, the Georgians packed up camp and started loading the vans and vehicles for our trek back.

Lauren: The way home included a few more random stops, (at least as far as we were concerned) another couple of renditions from the Canadian wonder known as Shania, and a very iffy couple of moments going around curves where I thought I might lose the contents of my stomach.  Thankful to have made it out alive, Johnny and I decided that we were glad for the experience...but that it would probably be best remembered as "one of a kind."

And so ends our tale of adventure, intrigue, and mystery.

**On an unrelated note, we accept donations in the form of care packages, phone calls, letters and emails, or a direct deposit into our meager bank accounts.