road rage

The car was skidding across the road, dust flying up in all directions, rocks spinning off and ricocheting off of other cars. We passed one car and cut off another car, one that was trying to pass us simultaneously. But then that car caught up, and sheered in front of us, causing the driver to pull a hard right and to enter into a full spin, the world rotating, from going along traffic, to watching traffic coming towards us and finally, to going on with traffic again. Except, we were in the wrong lane, and just as a semi-truck was coming towards us, the driver gunned it to correct the problem, and then there we were riding the bumper of the car we had originally cut off. Our driver was yelling strings of profanities in Georgian and Russian. For some reasons, Georgians always seem good at profaning in a variety of languages.

As my shoulder had been thrust against the car door while we spun, I held tight to my seatbelt. It's rude in Georgia to wear a seatbelt, like making a statement that you don't trust the driver. So to pre-empt this possible insult, most drivers just cut out all the seatbelts in their car, since Georgians can often be very sensitive to any perceived insults. The irony is that Georgians are awful drivers and if anyone needs to be insulted by their driving, it's the people of this country (sorry ma Georgian frends, but you guys kill more of each other in automobiles than Tamerlane or Putin could ever hope to do with swords and bombs).* So, with the full knowledge of the atrocious death tolls that mount up in car accidents around here, I never mind stuffing one to the driver. When I was buckling up earlier, this driver, Gia, kept trying to unbuckle me. "No, no, no! You don't need that!" he kept yelling at me as he tried to push at the release button. I kept pushing his hand away and cursed at him. I thought I was liberal with cursing before, but now I'm even more liberal, and as quite the polyglot.

The edge of the cliff came closer to us as we slid. It was a long way down from here. In my head were scenes of cars rolling down mountainsides, stopping only to explode in blazing infernos. I was appreciating my wisdom in inversely trusting people. I find that the more someone insists on something, especially the more a Georgian insists on something, the less you should trust him.** Gia was adamant about me not wearing a seatbelt. So then, it triggered an alarm in me: this must be a crazy ass driver. And I was right.

He kept yelling and honking his horn. We paralleled the other car, a Jeep Grand Cherokee. We were in the left lane and they were in the right. We kept moving closer to the Jeep to dodge various incoming cars. He was yelling through the open window as horns were blaring, louder and softer with each passing car, a live study in the Doppler Effect. The Jeep pulled ahead and off the road. Four guys got out. There were only three of us.

"Guys, really, this is idiotic," I said, using plenty more curse words than I just typed.

The other driver kept talking about the driver of the Jeep's mother. The guy in the passenger seat, Gela, just laughed. I got out of the car, ready for a fight to break out. Gia ran up to the other driver, his arms wide and flailing back and forth, a stream of words that I can only imagine depicted the other driver's mother in various sexual positions flew out of his mouth. The other driver returned the sentiments. Gela and I were at Gia's sides, holding his arms back from throwing punches at the other driver. The passengers of the Jeep returned the favor, holding their driver back. This seemed a better alternative to an all out brawl, since these guys were at once bigger than me and likely had been in 500 more roadside brawls than myself. I didn't mind throwing in on a fight, but Georgians were known not to play fair. They begin to cry and go for their knives and AKs, and then before you know it, everyone's family ten generations down the line is dead. It's not a country known for friendly resolutions to disputes. Especially among the Svans (Gela was a Svan, and Gia a Migrelian), who was who we were facing.***

One of the opposing guys walked off and took a piss behind a tree, completely unconcerned about the goings ons. Gela did likewise. I was along in pulling Gia back, but quick enough, he was silent as well. Then he reached up and hugged and kissed the other guy. It was turning into one big happy gay moment, right on the side of the road. Well, at least no one's dead this time around.

We all got back in our cars and started driving again. We followed them to a restaurant. We all got out, went into the restaurant and had a couple of liters of vodka and a bunch of khinkali.**** When the bill came, Gia insisted on paying. When one of the other Svans said he would pay, Gia stood up and started yelling at him. I slunk back in the chair, cursing, thinking, here we go again.



* There is a saying amongst Georgians who have been in other countries. "If you can drive in Georgia, you can drive anywhere," they say. This is probably true.
** Which isn't necessarily good advice in this country. Georgians insist profoundly on everything, from sitting down to eating to drinking. I could probably save myself a lot of hassle by just giving up and obeying, but I've got a healthy dose of American paranoia, which means I always ask myself, "Why are they being so insistent?"
*** Svans are generally considered some of the craziest Georgians there are. Migrelians are widely considered to be crazier. To understand just how crazy this is, know that Stalin was neither a Svan or Migrelian.
**** Khinkali is a type of dumpling native to Georgia.