Giorgi Had a Squeeze Box

Hey all,

            I hope this post finds you well, the same can’t be said for me. Unfortunately, I’ve been hit by a debilitating case of “white boy syndrome”. This condition affects the countless middle-class suburbanites across the world who are foolish enough to travel to developing countries. Symptoms include, not being able to travel farther than 20 feet from the toilet (hole), severe gut-pain, and a visible loss of colour whenever the word ‘khachapuri’ is mentioned.

            This morning I rolled out of bed, put on a clean shirt and tie, tried to get my hair to flatten in the sink, and trudged to the kitchen. Host mom was there, making breakfast whilst chattering happily at me in Georgian. I usually talk right back to her in English, neither of us understand what we’re saying to each other, but it’s just nice to have someone to talk to. Today, while I was telling her that the Canucks are losing more than just money in this lockout, she placed before me a pot of red, oily water with bits of chicken gristle floating in it. I used my baby Georgian to tell her I just wanted bread that I can put my life-saving jar of peanut butter on, but she used her superior language skills to guilt me into spooning the wiggly chicken into my unhappy mouth.

            Here we are, not 12 hours later, grimacing in pain and regret. With anything resembling a pharmacy, doctor or clinic hours away by jeep, I am just happy I know what’s wrong with me. With morale at an all-time low, I decided to cheer myself up with a little mindless activity. Before I explain, here’s a picture:

             A couple of months ago, I spent a few nights even deeper in the mountains than I am now. After a long day of haying, a couple kids invited me to share their fire and their vodka with them. Even though it was late August, the mountains were chilly and the allure of heat was too strong to pass up. I was there for several minutes when this young man appeared, squeeze box in hand. This guy was the very definition of badass, between shots of Russian water he would roar out Georgian folk songs, his fingers fighting to keep up.

            Tonight, flipping through some photos to pass the time between trips out back, I came across this marvelous image again. I immediately decided that he had the power to make every moment a decidedly festive occasion, and I sought to re-write history.  

Somehow makes me look cooler?

The hills are alive with the sound of vodka

Boogie down in the Caucasus

The band Radiohead

Vancouver riots weren't all bad

Wouldn't be the first Georgian in Space

                      If my family is reading this and starting to get worried about my sanity, try not to worry too much, I’m still several weeks away from talking to the livestock.

Kargad!