when I ran away with the potato gatherers
"How much is 1kg of potatoes in England?", "How much does an English farmer earn per year?", "Why is a young girl like you walking alone?", "Where did you just come from? The sky?!", "Where did you learn to speak Russian?", "Are you married?", "What do your parents do?", "Do you plan to marry a Georgian man?", "What do potatoes taste like in England?". Such were the questions that swamped me as I sat to drink coffee with a group of potato gatherers in the mountains of southwestern Georgia. "Join us!" the men had cried across the ploughed earth, laughing in disbelief when I actually did. But before even picking up a bucket, I was ushered into the shade, told to sit on a sack, and answered yet more questions while an enamel pot of coffee boiled over a gas stove.
***
It was early morning when I ran up and through the village of Ghreli. I took breathfuls of cold air and smelt freshly milked cows as I passed cattle herders, who clacked their sticks and hooted, beginning their day the same way they’d done since childhood. Above and around, the plums bloomed blue in the mist and their mush covered the road in thick, alcoholic layers. Walnut, apple, and quince trees, rosehip, and hawthorn bushes joined the autumnal mix, colouring my path while it stretched deeper into the mountains. By 10 o'clock, the rooftops of Sapara Monastery poked through the trees and I entered the site to rest before the next leg of my run. Half a Snickers bar, a handful of peanuts, and some curious 'mushroom and cheese sauce' сухарики* made up breakfast as I looked across the valley of silent swallows, swirling among the trees. The silence was absolute. Eerie. I felt like an impure disturbance here with my Nike running clothes and plastic packaging, as if I didn’t belong to this secluded temple of peace and swallows. The priests’ disdainful looks and swish of black robes hurried me on my way, up into the forest where the ground was untrodden, all sponge and spines, up and up until the very top. Here, the mountain finally levelled into a vast expanse of lines that rippled and flowed, swelling and folding back again like proving dough, beaten and burnt gold by the sun. Apart from bright specks of blue flowers and the odd yellow butterfly, the landscape was a mass of monochrome grasses, open space and shadows cut sharp by the clear mountain light. My only thoughts were, this is the best it can get, nothing is greater than this.
I ran on, along the ridge and down a track, seeing ahead a field of hay stacks and on the left, a van, a group of people, and a field of white sacks. The field was ploughed and on its ridges lay potatoes ready to be gathered by the potato pickers. How I wished to join them! How I'd missed working in the fields, working in communal rhythm under mountains! Soon, this wish would come true. A few from the group were staring, so I nodded and called gamarjoba* across to them, to vaguely feel some fellowship through this lonely journey, through our differing lands and tongues. Stares gave way to shouts of greeting, and before I knew it, I was sitting on a sack and swamped with questions while an enamel pot of coffee boiled over a gas stove.
“We live a simple life,” said a spindly man with a half-closed eye. “It’s a hard life, we’re working people you know, we don’t often meet foreigners." He then gestured to the group, "but we have big hearts, us Georgians, and a guest is a gift from God. Come and stay with us, you won’t need to pay a penny, it would be a great honour.” We worked then for 3 hours, each with a bucket and a potato line, until lunchtime.
"Enough now Olinka, let's eat", said Naira, my gathering partner, a heavy woman in her sixties with gappy teeth. We spoke Russian together, hers rusty, mine tentative, and she quickly christened me with the Russian name 'Olga' (or 'Olinka' to use the diminutive form), its only resemblance to my original name being the letter ‘O’.
Spread over the forest floor, there were fresh breads and tomatoes, pickled cucumbers and salty cheese, potato-filled buns, jars of bean stew, jams, salami, boiled eggs, fresh parsley, all homemade, potted and picked from kitchens and gardens. I looked at the hands that slice, peel, scoop. I wanted to touch these hands. I wanted our body heat to mingle through the scars and dirt of our lives, the bulging veins, the tight sinews, the blackened nails, the puffed fingers. Capable hands. Clever hands, dexterous hands that work to the endless rhythm of life’s demands. These hands are bound to the earth as it crumbles through those thick, expert fingers, as they gather potatoes. I wanted to hold these hands, value the life they’ve lived, recognise the life they’ve carved and hacked out of the mountains, out of the black earth and minty waters. I look at my own hands. The veins, the sinews. So capable.
Soon the work was done and we all piled into the rickety van. “This van is a year younger than you!” shouted Maho over the splutter of the engine. Down through the valleys we trundled, to the background noise of TikTok reels, laughter, and a straining engine while the autumn light deepened the crevices in the mountains. During this journey, Dali, a woman with suspicious eyes as sharp as a rat's finally turned to me and said, “We’re good people.” She then nodded and stared ahead. This was the first time she had directly addressed me.
After we had dropped off the workers in their village, and safely stored the single egg and Sprite bottle of warm milk I was gifted, Maho, Nino, and I made our way back to Akhaltsikhe, the main town nearby. Maho then turned and flashed his half-closed eye at me. "Nino's daughter, Gulo, is a medical student in Tbilisi. Very clever girl. She speaks English as well as you do!" Nino beamed but stays silent as we pulled up next to their house. "This is your home," said Maho, "and we are your family."
At this point, I was slightly dazed at the day's unexpected events. Sun, mountains, gathering, Russian, Georgian, and the new faces all hit me in a tide of tiredness as we entered the kitchen where Gulo was cooking supper. True to her uncle's word, she did speak brilliant English and started to bring out all sorts of homemade treats for me to try. After tasting rosehip tea, mulberry molasses, and honey, she popped her head around the kitchen corner again and asked, "Have you tried peach jam? My mum's just made some."
I wasn't allowed to decline. Yet another teaspoon was produced and yet another pot was placed in front of me. Over the next few days, mealtimes were always a lighthearted force-feeding game, with me declining and resigning to fourths of fried potatoes, khinkali*, or plum vodka. "It's not a choice between yes or no," joked Beka, the youngest son. "It's a choice between yes or yes!" I returned to Tbilisi like the fatted calf.
I stayed with Nino's family for four nights. Muravi, Nino, Gulo, Tornike and Beka. I also returned to them the following weekend. I will always remember their open hearts and kindness. They gave me so much joy.
***
On the eve of my 23rd birthday, Muravi and I marvelled at our impromptu meeting just one week ago. "Thank you for being like a family to me," I say. "I'm deeply grateful." In 10 days Muravi will go to Slovenia to start a new job as a lorry driver. He won't be with his family for two years. He must take this opportunity to support his family since the wages in Georgia just don't stretch far enough. His eyes crinkle into that smile I saw when I first met him. A smile that made me immediately think: he's a kind man. He opens his short, muscular forearms and hugs me. "You came out of the blue and helped us,” he replies. “And that, we’ll never forget.”
*Russian dried bread snacks (like flavoured croutons)*hello in Georgian*Georgian dumpling
