Borjomi, Part 3: The Three Tests

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Every good fairy tale has three tests that heroes and heroines must pass. Indiana Jones had to solve three clues in The Last Crusade. Thus it was in our walk to the spring pool in Borjomi's Mineral Spring Park.

Once we got off the pavement and turned a bend, Sandy and I found ourselves in an idyllic wood. We soon arrived at a bridge over the River Mtkvari. It was so pretty, I called Kate and suggested that she come just this far to see how gorgeous it was.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

This was my kind of place: Trees, a river, spring flowers, mossy bark, cool woodland breeze, birdsong, piney scents. There was no one else around.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

 

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Presently we came upon a rivulet that fed into the Mtkvari. Shallow but somewhat wide, we carefully stepped on the rocks to cross over. A bit of a delicate operation to keep from getting our shoes wet, nothing onerous. I expressed my relief to Sandy that we'd successfully traversed the spot of trouble before getting to the spring pool. Sandy doubted this was the trouble spot as it seemed a little too easy.

We passed a grave.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

We went up a steepish hill. We went down the hill.

And then Sandy and I saw it. The real challenge. No rivulet this. It was an adolescent stream, bristling with watery bravado, fast. Big, slippery rocks. Falling into this would mean an injury or being pulled into the roiling Mtkvari. There was no gingerly stepping across stones here to avoid getting one's shoes wet.

How to pass? Ah. There were two stripped, straight limbs laid parallel to each other across the stream. Each was about five inches wide. The stream was too wide to enable the holding of one end of something on one bank while crossing to the other bank. The stream moved too fast and furious to stick a large branch into the wale for anchoring while crossing. No. One had to, for a space, walk what seemed like a tightrope.

Borjomi, Georgia. Second water crossing. Photo credit: Sandy.

And we did it, Sandy more nimbly than I, and with her attempting to give me a hand at my turn, in the form of a decrepit, dried branchlet that crumbled into the rapids below. It was the thought that counted. 

Much relieved that we'd passed the trouble spot, we headed confidently toward the spring pool. Along the way today, we'd touched base telephonically several times with a TLG colleague who'd walked partway on this trail just a couple of weeks ago. We called her again after achieving our little feat, to discover that she and her husband had turned back at the first rivulet (not because of its difficulty, but because they hadn't received good direction and thought perhaps the spring pool was simply too far ahead).

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

So Sandy and I pressed on through the beautiful wood.

We heard people's voices up ahead. As we came closer, we saw a woman standing on the bank of the river. And we looked where she looked.

Shit.

This is what we saw.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

The woman's companion was walking ever so carefully across a log across the River Mtkvari. He held on to a steel cable to maintain balance.

Then the woman went across.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Sandy and I could see what had to be the spring pool over on the other side, up the path a bit. Should we go across? Could we? Were we stupid? Or adventurous?

We were so close to the spring pool. We had passed the previous two tests. We must finish the challenge.

But first, let's take a moment to reflect on the Georgian belief of what deserves care and what doesn't. As you can see from the above, Georgians are cavalier about park visitors taking on this treacherous path to a spring pool. No signs of caution. And, you can't see this from the photo, but that steel cable is frayed smack in the middle of the log "bridge," and I pity the person who happens to be going across when it separates, notwithstanding the single bale wire holding it somewhat in place. 

Here is what we saw in the hotel wastebasket: 

Borjomi, Georgia. Hotel Victoria wastebasket warning.

Go figure. Though now that I think about it, maybe Georgians do need to have such stickers on trash containers.

BTW, this is a thought-provoking article (Why Smart People Make Dumb Mistakes) on how safety features in parks may actually contribute to injuries and death. I've linked to page 3 of the article, which goes straight to this point, but the entire article is excellent information about how our mental models affect our safety in the wilderness.     


But anyway, Sandy and I each went across the log, Sandy venturing first. Oooh, I will admit, it was a little scary! It made a tremendous difference having seen two people cross it before us.

Here are different perspectives:

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Sandy and I felt like we'd achieved a cool thing by walking across that log.

So we walked confidently to the spring pool, not worrying that we'd have to re-cross the log on the return trip, only to discover one more hurdle before reaching the pool:  

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Really, all we could do was laugh before crossing over.


Views of the spring pool:

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

The spring pool was rather anti-climactic after we passed our three tests, but we still dipped our feet into the lukewarm water.

The walk back was uneventful, though not without challenge of re-crossing our waters.

I dropped my backpack on the path before trotting into the brush for a wilderpee.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

We collected Kate at the park entrance and began our return to town center.

But just outside the park, we noted -- and I don't use this word lightly -- an amazing house in the process of renovation. It might be worth a trip back to Borjomi just to see the finished product. We had no idea of its provenance, but it was dazzling.

Blue-trimmed exterior and design reminiscent of America's "Painted Ladies."

San Francisco Painted Ladies on Alamo Park. California.

But there was a mirrored tile balcony that had us mesmerized.  

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

Borjomi, Georgia. Mineral Spring Park.

It was fine.

By the time we got back to town center, it was time for dinner, so we went to the restaurant adjacent to the train depot. We arrived in the nick of time, as all tables except one was filled. Most customers were women of all ages, drinking merrily and then later, dancing. Traditional Georgian dancing, and modern. Although the food was nothing special, Sandy, Kate, and I got into the fun of the happy dancing.

A pleasurable day.

Toronto: Airport: Livestock Management

Cattle crossing near Spaceport America, New Mexico. March 2010.

I took the last UP train of the night from Toronto's Union Station to the airport, which was 1:00 a.m. So that put me into the airport about 1:30 a.m.

My envisioned itinerary

1. Arrive airport.
2. Move through airport security.
3. Move through US Customs
4. Find departure gate.
5. Plop down til departure time circa 7:00 a.m.

Easy peasy. 



Reality

Clusterfuck.



The three tests

In the age-old tradition of having to pass three tests of one's character, fortitude, or wit to reach one's destination, so it was at the airport. In this case, fortitude was the necessary quality.


Test 1

Feeling pretty good upon arrival at the airport - stage one complete: uneventful trip to airport, timely arrival.

Stepped smartly down to the security area.

Ohhhhhhhhh.

Not open. Wouldn't be open for several hours.

Virtually no seating options in the vicinity, other than a handful of chairs or the shiny floor.

I joined a tiny family of earlier-than-I stalwarts at the short bank of chairs. Blessedly, the chairs were just outside a restroom.

So, here's one of the downsides of traveling solo. You can't just stake out your spot in the as-yet-to-be-formed queue and then wander off to sightsee in the airport or go get a cup of coffee or even go to the restroom. You've either got to make friends fast with your waiting neighbors, asking them to watch your stuff or your little turf, or you've got to tough it out with boredom.

When you've got a travel partner, you can tag team each other, which is quite nice.

Fortunately, the restroom in this staging area was right next to the little bank of chairs, and my neighbors were congenial. So I could leave my carry-on bag on my seat under their watchful eyes, and slip into the restroom as needed.

We were the earliest arrivals of the day, and at a certain point, airport employees raised a barrier strip that kept passengers from entering the area where my neighbors and I sat.

This resulted in some frustration to new arrivals, as they were stopped by the barrier strip, almost within touching distance, but on just the other side of the boarding-pass machines. Plus no seating. And no one available to answer questions. And no discernible precise spot to begin a queue.

Fortunately, my neighbors and I were not evicted.

Some scofflaws on the other side of the barrier crossed the border in search of answers to their questions. Power to the people, I say. As long as they don't get in front of me in the line that would eventually be born.

But why put travelers under unnecessary stress?

I can accept that an airport (even a large international airport in the largest city of Canada) doesn't  operate its security process 24 hours a day. But given that the downtime is the norm, and given that travelers act in predictable ways when they expect one experience and receive a different one, there is no excuse for the lack of:

• Useful signage about hours, when a door will open, where a line begins
• Seating for travelers, especially for those who have physical impairments, or who tire easily from standing, or who feel ill, or who are traveling with children
• Access to the nearest restrooms (which were on the wrong side of the barrier line)
• One employee in the vicinity who is ready to answer questions

Yes, I know that one employee costs money. But if that one employee can soothe anxious flyers, this will pay off down the assembly line when the queue does open, with more pleasant - and therefore more efficient - processing through airport security and customs.

Goats at market in Gonder, Ethiopia. April 2011.

Test 2

Eventually, the magic hour rolled around and we could line up outside the transportation security door.

There was a slight glitch for me when coming through, but it was quickly taken care of and because I was toward the beginning of the line, I popped through on the other side fairly soon.

Only to be poured into a blank corridor that ended in a locked door with no instruction about what to do or where to go next.

Hahahaha, you'd think that the Canadian airport transportation security and the US Customs folks would coordinate their opening hours, right?

Fuck, no.

Consequently, our herd found itself in a bottleneck paddock waiting for some cowboy to open the gate into the next pasture.

Test 3

Time passed slowly, as it always does in the land of uncertainty. When will this end? What if I need to use the restroom?

Furthermore, when trapped between airline security and border customs, we've got to mind our attitudes, body language, words, so as not to attract unwanted attention by The Man.

In due course, an official unlocked the door, opened it, and allowed us to clip-clop through.

To another corral, albeit with seats, a restroom, and a drinking fountain.

There was another locked door between us and US Customs, with no guidance about timing or process.

For awhile, we milled about curiously, while generally maintaining a cluster near the door that would lead us (hopefully) to US Customs at some unknown moment. You can be sure, no one of us wanted to lose our place in the line, when a line could, at some point, be permitted to form.

We emitted discreet baa's and moo's among ourselves about the whens, whats, and wherefores to come. We chewed our cuds quietly in a display of non-threatening compliance.

Presently an official arrived, who told us to find a seat while we waited. Some of us did so; others of us did not wish to give up our places in the as-yet-unborn queue, thus remained standing.

Shortly another official arrived who was kind of an asshole in her abruptness and lack of useful information.

Overall, the impression I had was that the officials acted as if this was a new and unusual scene for them, not one that happened every flipping morning.

In other words, no good signage, no good process, no respect for the human needs of the people passing through. All of whom have the basic need to urinate at various points in a day, some of whom have mobility challenges, some of whom have young children, some of whom have disabilities that affect interactions or movement or understanding.

No excuse for this.

Oh, so, finally that last door got unlocked and we could pass through to US Customs.

Tests survived.

Toronto complete. 

Louisiana: "Are You Doin' All Right?"

The first time someone asked me "are you doin' all right?" in South Louisiana, I thought it was a kind, solicitous question asked specifically of me by someone I knew. The second and third times someone asked, I wondered, "Do I look ill? Troubled? Uncomfortable?"

I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed on some matters, so it took me awhile to understand that "are you doin' all right?" is the South Louisiana version of  the casual-polite "howya doin'?" of the Midwest.

In Missouri, my experience is that we reserve the phrase "are you/she/he/they doing all right"? for occasions when: 

• There has been a past challenge, such as health or finances, that the person has (hopefully) overcome
• Someone appears (or has been heard) to be in some emotional or physical distress
• Someone might need a little financial boost to help them over a bump in the road

But as I write the above, I realize I need to qualify my understanding about what we say in Missouri - it's my experience from growing up in a middle-class, suburban, cultural-Catholic, white environment. Frankly, I can't speak on the standard greeting in other niches that make up Missouri.

The reason I bring up the qualifier is that after being in Caucasus Georgia, and in South Louisiana for more than a year, and via my tiny interactions with various Indian events in New Mexico, and other, more indirect sources -->  in many groups, when there is universal hardship for the people in that group, there also comes a culture of sharing, of helping each other out when possible.

Based on my understanding, it seems that most South Louisianans, starting from the early 1700s and until about 70 years ago (hello, oil) were subsistence farmers or ranchers (forced or unforced), fisherfolk, hunters, or laborers.

Historic components of the courir de Mardi Gras involve the communal gathering, cooking, and sharing of food at the time of year when the food supplies laid by for winter from last year's harvest are almost exhausted, and the new year's crop of fresh vegetables or fruit isn't yet mature.  English lyrics to the song, Danse de Mardi Gras: 

The Mardi Gras come from all around, all around the center of town.
They come by once per year, asking for charity.
Sometimes it's a sweet potato, a sweet potato or pork rinds.
The Mardi Gras are on a great journey, all around the center of town.
They come by once per year, asking for charity.
Sometimes it's a skinny chicken, or three or four corn cobs.
Captain, captain, wave your flag, let's go to another neighbor's.
Asking for charity for everyone who'll come join us later,
Everyone who'll come join us later at the gumbo tonight!

In South Louisiana today, I think I see a more inclusive attitude toward local homeless and people with tough economic times that is different from what I see and hear from people elsewhere.

Note: Now, look, I'm talking about a person-to-person level and not the contemptible political level, where we, the people, have voted in power whores who seek the approval of fascist-like, pseudo-Christians by passing laws that target poor constituents, or the populist level where social media folk share Dalai Lama posts in one stroke and in the very next, comment amen and hallelujah to the posts about drug tests for people on welfare. And say zip about doctors and other professionals stealing hundreds of millions from taxpayers in Medicare and Medicaid fraud. Where's the rallying cry for drug testing for doctors and their staff who bilk Medicare and Medicaid?


Anyway.

To get back to the "are you doin' all right?" question. Maybe it arises from a long, long history of widespread hardship, where neighbors help each other out when they can. Or maybe it means nothing, really; just a quirky fashion at one time that became culturally codified. I've learned that we humans are hard-wired to place meanings on things, even when there really isn't any particular meaning to be had.