God's Gift to Georgia

On being a good guest in a magical country, where your responsibilites as a guest involve nothing, apart from doing it right. God sent you, after all.

A mountain.

Hanging around with Georgian people will always be a little … chaotic. There is always a lot going on, and you’re always on the way somewhere, or waiting for someone, or there are phones ringing, or favors to be made or called in, and suddenly there will be a change of plans, or a detour, and there will always be food and wine showing up from someone’s mum, or cousin, or neighbor. You will have the time of your life, a hangover – and chances are, you’ll never really understand what that day was all about.

A Georgian would look at you right now with a funny face, then just shake his head. “About?” Why do things need to be about anything? You do stuff, then you do other stuff, and the important thing is you got to hang out and eat, and no one had to be alone that day.

If this sounds like a caricature of a people, you're more than welcome to try it out for yourself – you shouldn’t have to spend many hours in Tbilisi talking to people before suddenly sitting in the back of a car at breakneck speed, going up a mountain road to someone’s aunt, just because you happened to mention you planned on trying khinkali at some restaurant. That in itself will cause most Georgians to panic. What if the khinkali isn’t any good? What if the place isn’t really suited for Westerners? And why pay for food? Much better to make sure you get the full Georgian experience.

Don’t say no – the end result will be the same. You’ll still be sitting in that car, but you’ll be exhausted by having made all those futile protests. Georgians take hospitality seriously, and few of them would understand why you wouldn’t want to hop into a stranger’s car (you’re not strangers anymore, by the way, didn’t they just invite you out to their aunt?), or that you might already have made plans (those can easily be changed, can’t they?), or that you just want to be alone (that is ill, perverted behavior, one that must be curbed at any cost, as you must be suicidal, at the very least).

Calls will be made. Some are just day-to-day business stuff, and might sound a little shouty, but don’t be alarmed. I know the language well enough to tell you that they almost exclusively will revolve around money, and things about to be bought or sold. Ra ghirs? Randemi? Ara, ara, ara! Don’t worry, by the way. If you do, one of the people in the crammed car (who they are? friends, of course) will explain to you that the Georgians were always a horseback people – this is why they’re really good at driving and making calls and navigating Tbilisi traffic and converting currencies, all at the same time.

There will also be calls to make sure Aunt will cook the actual khinkali. She might have to go shopping, or borrow money from a relative (cash is always in woefully short supply in Georgia, thanks to years of russian meddling and occupation), and she’ll want to make the guest beds, probably invite some other people over. They will all want to meet you – you’re a Westerner, and it’s all kind of cool that you’ve come here, even though you can’t speak like a normal person. The neighbors’ talented 10 year-old daughter will be called in to translate, anyways. Only good for her, really, to get some practice.

You can ask where you’re going, and you might get an answer, but save yourself the trouble. It won’t make any difference – will it? You don’t speak much Georgian. English, German or russian might bridge some of the gap, but that would steal a lot of energy from everyone in the car. Instead, let them think for long stretches, and then use all of their language skills and gestures to tell you a wonderful story you might, or might not, understand. The important thing is that you’re having a grand old time. Smile, or everyone will be worried. Sink back, and when they turn up the radio to sing along to old Hamlet Gonashsvili songs, enjoy. Oh, you have asthma? Too late for Borjomi, when your kidneys already failed, as the saying goes. You’re in a Georgian car. People will smoke.

There will be breaks to show you hot springs or spectaular views (of each, there are many), for coffee that you under no circumstances are allowed to pay for – or perhaps to say hi to somebody, or to change a troublesome tire. You might be worried at this point that something will be asked of you, or that you’ll be scammed.

Never. You’re the guest, remember? They might be a little possessive of you though, as there are surely many others that would like to have this God-gift at their tables. And other Georgians, well – they will tell you with a most solemn and worried expression, other Georgians can’t be trusted. They all will tell you this, and all of them can in fact be trusted in any matter – apart from in this assessment. No, it’s not that they go around badmouthing their fellow countrymen. It’s just that trust is something you put in your clan, not in random people. Well, in your case, it’s obviously a whole different matter: you’re a foreigner, and you’re all alone in this world. Better get you into the clan, already!

Which is why, when you arrive up in the mountains, at a huge house, built when electricity was cheaper (for the nomenklatura, at least), sized to hold four generations and enough cousins so that no one ever will have to be lonely, you will be made to feel completely at home.

You will be guided around the premises: to admire the vegetable patch, the vineyard, the piglets that are about to be be fattened for Christmas, the free-ranging hens, and the neighbor’s sole, dashing cow.

You will be shown your lodgings: a high-ceilinged bedroom with heavy, exquisite curtains and several creaky wireframe beds with endless amounts of mattresses and duvets. Some cousin might already be sleeping in an adjacent sofa, but he will be promptly and – if need be – a little brusquely roused, as he cannot be allowed to miss the prominent guest. Or the khinkali!

The kitchen will be steamy from the wood-fired stove and the wonderful scents. Auntie will be red-faced, smiling, and a little shy towards you. She is super busy cooking anyways, but that won’t stop her from hugging her favorite niece, the man who invited you – nor from complaining loudly about him wasting away in that sinful cesspool Tbilisi.

Things will happen suddenly from that point on. If you can’t remember it all afterwards, that’s nothing to worry too much about. The first plates of white, brittle cheese, the astringent, salty jonjoni-buds, and perhaps a mayo salad with chicken, will now start to arrive at the table where you’ve been sat, together with two young, sweet-faced boys, as well as Auntie’s husband, who smiles expectantly at you over your glass of orange wine – yes it’s homemade, of course it is. When you try it, it will taste like nothing you ever tried before in your life. In fact, you’ll pay ridiculous amounts just to try to find that sunshiny, full taste of Georgia once again. In Ukraine, living through war, too.

In the blur of all this, there will be even more people arriving, even more food. The khinkali won’t be arriving any time soon, so try to plan your eating. That’s impossible, as everyone will wonder why you eat like a pigeon, and look with real concern at you as they do. Some might ask if you’re ill. So you dig in at the sour plum lamb stew and the chicken tabaka, the walnut filled eggplant rolls and the grainy, aromatic lobio. In-between, you will drink the wine.

Georgians invented wine some 8,000 years ago, so they have a pretty respectable claim to know how to drink it. You don’t sip wine in this country, but instead, the tamada – the toastmaster, the MC – makes sure an eloquent speech is held by each and every one around the table: to God, to the country, to women, to the ancestors … This is serious business. It doesn’t matter if you understand a word of it – the message will get through. Only then do you shot your wine, all together. Gaumarjous!

Won’t this get you a little drunk, you might wonder, before the alcohol hits you like a brick. Yes it will, that’s the point. This is ancient, alcohol-fuelled, formalized group therapy. It’s the most beautiful ritual on earth. People will cry and laugh, and there will be polyphonic singing, something you’ll listen to for the rest of your life. The very nervous, translating 10-year old girl will pick up the panduri and sing a folk song, all fierce-voiced, transformed. The khinkali will arrive.

You really need to listen to people now, drunkhead. For your own safety, you can’t just go and eat a khinkali. These are big beautiful dumplings, with a friendly knob to hold onto. But there are rules. First of all, you may apply black pepper to your khinkali, but nothing else. It’s already expertly spiced, so don’t go messing with it. Then you grab it by the belly button and carefully bite a little hole. Then you suck. It’s full of hot meat juices that will explode all over you if you’re not experienced, and prone to dribble down your chin even if you are. When your khinkali is sucked dry, you may gobble down the rest.

Just do not, whatever you do, eat the belly button. Ara, ara, ara – no one is that poor in Georgia, that they would eat this tough rubbery handle. Just put it at the side of your plate, as these remnants will be used in the obligatory counting contest, once the eating is over. A man should be able to eat 21 khinkalis to be considered of marriage age, someone will tell you; the girl should be able to fold 21 pleats on the dumpling. You’ll never know if this is just shit they tell foreigners, but what does it matter? This is what they want you to know about their magical country. And by now, you will be stupidly smiling drunk, and so full that not even Auntie’s piercing eyes can force another khinkali down your throat.

Thing is, a constituting Georgian thesis is … they hold alcohol better than anyone else. They invented the wine, after all (gvino, their word for wine, is the one shared by us all – thank them for that beautiful word). And you’re a Westerner! They will want proof, so this is where the chacha will join the chat.

Chacha is a transparent liquid, and it looks just like any vodka. Beware, though. This is the Georgian version of grappa, and the homemade ones can be somewhere around 60-70% proof. It is fruity, and funky, and if it’s well done – which it always is – it will taste balanced and not at all that strong –

Which is why you’ll wake up the next morning with no idea of how you got to your bed. No worries, a cousin stands at the door to tell you it’s time for breakfast. You’re God’s gift to Georgia, and it’s time to eat again. You will get back to Tbilisi, but it could take another day, or two. Don’t fret about it. This is your family now.