Somebody Call The Police!!!

The first inkling that something might be going wrong was in the first marshrutka. The assistant driver had gotten out and proposed to look for another passenger’s bag. But it happened that the passenger had his bag under the seat with him.

I should have been more proactive with the second situation. When I looked into the back of the first marshrutka when it had stopped at the mid point of our journey, my bag was not there. But being the eternal optimist, I assumed that it had already been packed into the second marshrutka.

When we reached our final destination… my bag was indeed NOT THERE!

Let me back up in the story a little bit.

We, my friends Jessica and Audrey and myself, were traveling from Batumi to Mestia. We got to the marsh station, found the correct van and stuffed our stuff in the back. This form of transportation is as common as, say a taxi, in the States.  I, and my friends, have used marshes a hundred times for short trips and long. We knew we were going o have to transfer marshes in the city of Zugdidi. Things were looking to be more convenient for us because four Polish tourists were headed the same way, which meant a guaranteed marsh to Mestia.

On the Marshrutka

On the Marshrutka

But I didn’t pay attention to the danger signs. We arrived in Mestia in the early evening as the sun was setting. It was biting cold. And I now had zero extra clothes with me. To say the least I was stunned.

We called the first marsh driver, but he had his phone off. The hostel proprietor, my friends and other passengers were supportive saying it would turn up in the morning.

Fortunately there was a heater in our room. So I was toasty during the night. But all I could think about as i lay there was hiking one of the highest mountain chains in Georgia the next day without my thermals….

The next day, I went downstairs to ask the hostel proprietor if she had heard from the other driver. She had not. We waited for a little while. Then he responded that he did not see a bag on his marsh the previous day. Ugh.

So we went to the police station to have them talk to the Zugdidi police and maybe keep an eye out. After that, what more could I do, right? So I put it out of my mind and enjoyed the beauty all around me.

That evening, we went back to the police station to ask if they heard anything. They hadn’t, but told us to wait.


A little later, an older lady came in and said, “Hello”, in English. We all went upstairs together. She was brought in to translate and help take down my statement. This whole process was entertaining, frustrating, and comforting all at the same time. It was comforting that they were taking me and my bag seriously. I felt I had a personal detective assigned to me. It was entertaining to see the other police officers come in and out to look at us. Entertaining to also to see this part of Georgia. Glad I wasn’t on the ‘business’ end of the table though.  But frustrating to go through the process. They have computers, but I don’t think they have keyboarding skills. The process was like this: The detective would ask a very detailed specific question and the translator would translate. I would answer him,  and the translator would translate. Then the detective would dictate to another officer what to write down by hand in pen. Occasionally, they would have to walk upstairs with their work. I asked why, and the translator said they had to go brief the supervisor (who was a woman… awesome!) This process went on for 2 hours.

Finally we were done. The supervisor came down to talk to us, which I thought was awesome. She said that they would send the information to the Zugdidi police. But I should go to the station on the way back through.

Afterward we had dinner with one of the police officers. Nice guy.

I didn’t have time to go to the station in Zugdidi. I had my TLG representative call them for me the next day, and they said I would have to come to the station to give a report.  Ugh. I told them that Mestia has the official report and they were sending it to them. They said they would look into it.

Haven’t heard anything since.

This post is the last time I will spend mental energy on the lost bag. It pains me too much. I will simply chalk it up as a loss. Nothing of irreplaceable value was in the bag.  Although all of the thermals I owned were in that bag, they too are replaceable. I’m just over attached to my clothes. Northface ski jacket, ski gloves, all the thermals I owned, two sweaters, jeans, undies, socks and a favorite hat. And I’m sure a couple of things I simply can’t remember. I know a few days or weeks from now, I’ll be asking myself, “Now where did I put that…?   … Oh, yeah.”

Maybe this is a healthy thing.  It still hurts.


Bad boys, bad boys
Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do
When they come for you?
Bad boys, bad boys
Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do
When they come for you!

Bad Boys, Inner Circle


Holla atcha boy!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s