A memorandum to Georgia

Please not that the following lines are highly personal and that they may or may not represent the whole truth. However, they do represent a truth, my truth. A truth that had partially been written during the onset of a bacterial illness and in the cold and dark month of February.

First of all, I believe a short introduction would be necessary. Some wider context is needed for you, the reader, to understand where I am and what is going on. After my frustrating months in Central Asia, may they be as instructive as they have been, I decided to head back to Georgia to visit my friends, following an emotional sickness, eat food without meat and possibly find a job here. I had taken matters into my own hand, had freed myself of most of my worldly possessions and had set my mind on trying something new for myself. It turned out to be more difficult than anticipated.

But let’s not dive too deep into these organizational matters, for they are quite boring and serve no greater purpose. It suffices to say that I moved to Kutaisi, following my intuition and the advice of a foreign friend who has settled here and seemingly adores the city. Right from the start I got in touch with a young local couple owning a teaching-center, start-up palace and who asked me straight-away if I wanted to give English lessons. I agreed. Two or three month passed without any greater evolution of my working and overall situation. I have a flat by myself, yet no one to share it with. I had the outlook for acquiring a teaching position with no fixed program, allowing me to freely teach as I see fit. I have some financial reserves and no immediate pressure to actively seek employment. I did watch a few extraordinary films, all-time classics and some that are advisable for all to watch. I read a few books.

Almost every book is based on violence. Luckily the English teaching one is peaceful.

View from my former flat.

The months passed. I witnessed the Georgian parliamentary elections. I saw the former president Mikhail Saakashvili return from his Ukrainian exile (just in time, I’d say). Misha returned and so did the snow in Rustavi. I experienced public transportation in Georgia. I followed Georgian news on the war in Ukraine. I observed the everyday Georgian life, the routine. I mused about the fascinatingly slowness at which everything and everybody moved, not taking into consideration the drunk drivers all over this country, who cannot wait to die in a tragic accident. And all the suicidal Glovo bikes who face the traffic jams of Tbilisi with a stern fanaticism, proudly carrying the banner of exploition into their glorious death. Banzai!

I remember Georgia from seven years ago, when I fresh came from high school into this promising Caucasian state that was still forgotten by most of the world. The overall infrastructure and life standards seemed to be increasing slowly but steadily. People were friendly, hospitable, exceedingly interested in meeting and talking to European strangers.

Of course, I am aware that my situation was an altogether different one. I may have had this veil of naivety, which shielded of a great number of uncomfortable truths, Well, it has been lifted. I see things clearly now. And I am bitterly disappointed.

I will satisfy myself with only one concrete example: politics. You think that politics are boring? Especially this dull process of going to the voting booth and give your voice to somebody? Fear not, in Georgia it pays off! Upon voting for the right party, the Qartuli Otsneba, in short Qotsi (note that this is awfully close to the German words “kotzen”, which means to throw up) you will receive 20 Lari and/or a sack of delicious potatoes. Yes, you may suffer from four years of hardship and an ever increasing slithering towards a pro-Russian dictatorship, but behold! you will eat well for one week.
These are the voters, who happily give their voice and receive something in return. Others, especially state workers, were forced to vote for the ruling party (in power since 2012) under the threat of losing their jobs.
Of course, in the end all of this pressure is hardly worth the effort, as the elections were rigged anyway and a majority of the people did vote for Qotsi, despite the obvious fact, that the leading politicians work on their own, personal agenda. It’s disappointing, that any reasonable being would vote for a political party that is so openly corruptible.

I realise that I sound harsh and unfair. However, it becomes clear to me that Georgia is moving away from being truly European. Not the individual people, certainly not my close friends here, who I adore more than anybody else, but the whole dirty edifice as a whole. The war in Ukraine (yes, it’s called a war, Putin, you sad, empty cunt!) is the famous drop that was one too many. It’s a disgusting display of sheer power whoring, of reckless lying and manipulating, coupled with a creeping hollowing of the free and concerned public opinion.
The valiant, empathetic Georgian people rose up and demanded their government for immediate support for the harassed, bleeding Ukrainian defenders. The political leadership answered unanimously – with silence. Well, okay, with a small outcry, condemning Russia’s move. But did any actions follow?
( a bit of a badly structured paragraph, I might rephrase it a later stage )

Slava Ukrainiy!

When I was on my 20-hours bus ride through Turkey, I had a lot of time to reflect on what lays ahead. When I first lived here I was in love and its magic made me oblivious to certain aspects of the unpleasant reality; where there was wonder, love and excitement, now sadness reigns. I have become anxious, fearing that I might be ran over by a drunk Georgian driver at any time. Or mistaken as a Russian and injured for this reason. I feel disillusioned. I had hugged Georgia and its mode-de-vie, but the embrace has been loosened and instead of the warm and affectionate feeling an awkward silence imposed itself. There’s a dwelling anger in my chest.
Therefore, it appears evident that my time here in this country comes to a close. I resolve to leave ere summer, with no mind to buying a return ticket.

Before closing this chapter I must, however, bring a small memory back to my mind. It was on my excursion to Tkibuli (ტყიბული) that I met some excellent Georgians in a restaurant. I join their drinking and feasting party. Despite the war in Russia and their ever-increasing hatred towards the Russian language, they conversed with me, therefore overcoming their unease, anger and sadness for the sake of communication: an altogether smart and wise approach. We enjoyed our reciprocal company. Upon hearing that I was going to leave Georgia one man asked me not to forget them.

That was all he demanded. To remember that scene. The true identity of one part of Georgia. A welcoming, warm, hospitable and out-goinf one. One that overcomes problems, personal and the ones that are a produce of society and the environment. And I am happy for this memory and for many, many more.

But I have made up my mind about leaving.

Off, I will go, into the west.

Georgia on my mind ✌

Some thoughts on Kyrgyzstan and a silly anecdote.

Krgyzstan is a true Kaputnik-State. Which means that it works, despite the fact that absolutely nothing is meant to function. You get the idea immediately within the first 5 minutes in the country: Grammatical errors in the official airport signs, no means of renting cars, an absence of busses and the likliness that your flight will be delayed, because a cow decided to nap on the runway. Just like they do on every other road.

Can you spot the mistake?

Maybe the latter is exaggerated. It is, however, very surprising that 30 years after declaring its independence and controling vast mineral ressources, Kyrgyzstan would still not be able to run a few buslines – or marshrutka (vans) throughout some part of the most central regions. The only train line that does exists, apparently runs only once every week!

Even this thing is able to conquer the mountain. Why not a bloody bus?

Every official state worker seems to be corruptible. Take a random street cop for example: instead of writing a fine for speeding for 500 som (around 5€), he gladly and woolfishly accepts 200 som that go straight into his own pockets. The higher the rank, the higher the bribes get.

Unsurprisingly, this treacherous nature that is so visibly displayed by the important people of Kyrgyzstan, is imitated by its other inhabitants. I have the impression that almost each and every (male) citizen will try to cheat you of your money. Deals that are agreed on, can easily be altered to the locals wishes, desires and, of course, to the tourists/travelers growing frustration.

At one point… something snaps within the tourists troubled, oxygen-deprived and most oftenly over-heated brain. And then the haggling starts. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Bargain for every cent/som as if your life depended on it. Do not trust any of the prices.

It so happened that, while staying in Osh for a few days, me and one of the 4 Israelian guys staying in the same hostel, went to buy some Coke. The prices on the markets were close to 60 som for 1.5 Liters (for warm and filthy Coke), whereas the one we found in a real shop was tagged at the dastard price of 80 som. So we haggled.

“80 som? That’s prosta outrageous! Never in my life have we found anything this inhumane and despicable. Have you seen the prices on the market, have you? This is already only barely acceptable, but 80… 80 som? I need this money to feed my poor, gray donkey a little bit of grass that he so deserves on his old days. He’s already limbing on his two hind legs, but he wants to go back to his mountain village to see his donkey wife and donkey children before the inevitable happens, yalla.”

We managed to push the prices by 5 som. Not great, not terrible. But when trying to pay, we ran into some serious issues: we did not have enough coins. We were going through our combined wallets and pockets and found only about 70 or so som. That, plus about 10.000 more, but only in big bills and we had already entered a stage of stingy deception that there was was no turning back. In the end, we got it our way and, though embarrassing as it was, we achieved a little discount.

On that day we truly understood some of the Kyrgyz mentality. All thanks to a completely rotten government.

The Isrealian desert rat that can eat an infinite amount of pasta.

“One can enjoy bureaucracy and therein identify the bizarreness of life” – Ludwig Schubert

Some of you might be slightly familiar with the rich Russian history. I will not continue with a full rendition of what has happened before, only state the most important factor that all major events have in common: time. Certainly, never has anything ever happened, is happening or will ever happen anywhere in this world or the next without the factor time. This accounts for all creation, all matter in the universe, all countries and all gummibears alike.

(Space is, of course, just as important. Historically speaking, however, space and time are not proportional. If you compare the first mention of historical relevance of two given countries, then you would quickly see how Luxembourg is relatively smaller than Mother Russia, despite the prominence it already enjoyed in Roman times.)

Time is a vital ally of Russia. In times of war, the military could just wait for the right moment to start a counter-attack. Sometimes the government would wait for its industry to slowly wake up. Most of the Russian people need to be patient for winter to end its long lasting choke-hold so that they return to their actual work or hobbies. In fact, this waiting is so deeply enrooted in the culture that is has found its way to spoken and written language alike: friends of the language should have a look at the usage of the aspects of the various verbs of movement.
In fact, time and patience or so important to the culture that everyone arriving in Russia is already welcomed with a lot of paperwork that will test their patience to the breaking point. You may want an example for the better understanding of this problem: If writing this blog required Russia bureaucracy to be written, that would mean that I would have to visit at least 5 different offices in 3 different buildings that are distanced by at least 500m (this is especially unpleasant in winter times when the temperatures drop below -20°), sign a dozen papers in official Russian and show three different types of copies of the exact same picture.

The door to the accountant’s office. Text says (among others): “Come in one by one!!!”, “Please, leave nothing behind”, “Working times”, yallah yallah

In reality, the situation is even worse.
Traveling to Russia, especially in the framework of a program as official and well-known as Erasmus+ will have you at your knees, begging for a quick end. The way leading up to our departure was paved with quicksand, rather than actual stones that could have facilitated or accelerated our movement. Every movement bringing you closer to being accepted to Russia and receiving a scholarship already requires a considerable number of signatures and time (meaning: 2 different Learning Agreements, 2 different Motivation letters as our first choice spontaneously changed, a number of meetings with the responsible, a CV and so on and all of which should be handed in in at least 2 languages and in different styles). All of this process took about 2 months of work, varying in intensity.

Moving on. The real work, however, awaited us after crossing the border to Mother Russia. The first days in the country that had been at choke-hold of frost for many months were marked by an overwhelming and utterly and completely nonsensical amount of paperwork that had to be carried out in great hurry and in dozens of offices. As one is required by law to register wherever one goes at any time, so that the surveillance state knows where its subjects and foreign elements plot against him, we immediately had to go through a medical examination in order to enter the prison/dormitory. This went as follows: A Turkmen girl impatiently waited for us in what was soon going to be our new cell/home and let us through the Poliklinika where a couple of doctors inspected our health, to make sure that we didn’t have Syphilis, Tuberculosis or some weird mutation of Western values or ideals (the latter they didn’t check). This small inspection exacted of us some hours of our lifetime, combined with a thorough visit of the many-store medical building.
The documents thus retrieved at the end of this examination granted us the right to actually enter our house (House 7, inhabited solely by foreigners). Once inside of the building, we very hurried through two more bureaus where we had to sign another wave of documents. They were, as all other documents or contracts, written in a complicated Russian – it is not entirely out of the world to believe that we transfered our souls to the Red Army in the course of our actions. Afterwards we could finally leave our luggage in our new living quarter where we were greeted by our new flatmate with a hospitable and warm “Oh! I didn’t expect any guests!”, before we put our snow capes back on and made haste to be back in our coordinators office. He, that is our coordinator Rustam – we figured that our nickname for him “Rastam” would be more accurate, if only he could grow his hair and started smoking hashish – then congratulated us on having achieved the rank of Novice Bureaucrat and for having survived the first day of our 5-month stay.
The day eventually came to end with two aliens falling into their beds in their cells in this prison in a strange and cold country, that had only given us a short impression of what the actual paperwork here could look like. At this point, when our exhausted bodies longed only for rest and the cessation of these absurd procedures, a sudden panic shook us awake: This had only been the first day, yet we still hadn’t chosen any of our courses that we were to visit, nor actually paid for the jail sentence/dormitory. In the course of the following weeks and months of our stay, we have learned to live with these absurdities and take it rather as a comical game, rather than an unfortunate and miserable stroke of injustice against us foreigners. It is a fact, that all beings who were regrettable enough to be born here, or those that have willingly and purposefully moved to Russia suffer very alike – with the minute distinction, that some were lucky enough to know Russian to a degree, that they can at least understand when they sell their kidneys to some authority when signing any paper.
However, once you have left the greatest part of the work behind you or have learned to live with it, then you will see that life moves swiftly and you may be surprised at the amount of meaningful work that a person can fulfil here, if they have overcome the hindering traps, obstacles and whatever may pave ones path – success is all about conquering the first steps and using all the help one can possibly find.

A small insight into the paper terror that we had to go through