tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30592213950047398062024-03-05T08:29:35.597-08:00Call Me ZachoTales from a rookie English teacher in the Republic of Georgiaznorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-9979053169616432162013-07-22T23:44:00.000-07:002013-07-29T06:22:20.765-07:00A Forest for Trees<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Just a heads up, I am still alive and still posting over on my new blog, <a href="http://aforestfortrees.blogspot.kr/">A Forest for Trees.</a><br />
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znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-34010055123274964952012-12-15T06:56:00.003-08:002012-12-15T07:03:53.385-08:00Out of the Village<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well...what can I say? I travelled 9,000 kilometers, I spent
four months, that’s 123 days or 2952 hours in The Republic of Georgia.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Georgia is
perhaps the most interesting country that I have ever had the opportunity to visit. It is a country of contrast, a country of duplicity, and one of
contradiction. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve spent the last few days on the cobbled streets of Tbilisi with its clean and stylish
middle class. Young couples sneak kisses under Christmas-lighted trees.
Dignified older men and women laugh, it trickles into your ears as they vanish
around the corners of trendy restaurants, leaving nothing but a cloud of
expensive perfume in your nose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve spent the better part of my time in the village, with the lovely, semi-nomadic farmer class,
scraping sustenance out of the generous earth with muddied fingers, they smile
with open hearts and offer to you everything that they own, which never seems to be enough to them, but always seems too much for you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Georgia is
a love story, we just don’t know how it’s going to end. Sought after, courted
by superpowers, scorned, abandoned, and revered, Georgia now sits on a precipice
between Russia and the U.S. with a pro-Russian Prime Minister beginning his first term and a
pro-American President ending his last. Do the people want us here? Do they want to westernize,
join NATO and the EU and speak English and embrace capitalism? Or do they want
to go back to Russia, trickle back down into the notorious days of gangsterism
and corruption when life was difficult but the choices were unbelievably easy? Unfortunately, most Georgians that I have spoken to have little sense of history, they simultaneously love the West and Russia, despite what Russia has done to them, despite what we'll do to them. Like
I said, we just don’t know how it’s going to end, yet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPgxTst_tXxi_SLG4Q2toelKJNGh3Vg65TBDHbzXYBURK3b9xniZLyYuRDwyR3Iigua0d6D3YN_v49TPOJT-fcVHjE1BMUlkpdaRxBtK2Nf9hWtMGznL_mYDk5_khz7EcZi7OdhZdtt1Sj/s1600/DSC02509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPgxTst_tXxi_SLG4Q2toelKJNGh3Vg65TBDHbzXYBURK3b9xniZLyYuRDwyR3Iigua0d6D3YN_v49TPOJT-fcVHjE1BMUlkpdaRxBtK2Nf9hWtMGznL_mYDk5_khz7EcZi7OdhZdtt1Sj/s320/DSC02509.JPG" width="240" /></a> My last
days in the village were the easiest that I spent there because my emotions were buoyed
by the prospect of finally seeing my family again, but I was torn between the thought of a Canadian Christmas and the reality of forever leaving my new
family, my Georgian family. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m doing
the right thing by leaving, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t worry
too much about it, mate. It’s time to go home.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If I
stayed another week it would just be that much harder, right? If I stayed
another year it would be just that much harder, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh Dali,
Giga and Rusiko.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dali grew fonder
of me as the fateful day approached. She was constantly jabbering at me in
Kartuli, convinced that I was just being modest when I told her I wasn’t fluent
yet. She grabbed me in a giant bear-hug and shook me around like a rag doll,
she threatened me with a wooden spoon, and she took it as a personal affront
when I lost my appetite for a few days. She almost cried when I told her “Shen
aris chemi Kartveli deda”, you are my Georgian mother. She has a lovely soul.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_TJr527R-v-rMFlBlOyjRTUkCidqY7GMF6FrJUmgHrmAlmGzqNQNBPFyE1bIztRipvMj0hBrhvQ-ajbwwJ1J5-460SSIEFxcRZ4PUzN-_ZbkqmYdBZgyuEZKhP3me_kzWYQDjhRk9AFib/s1600/DSC02514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_TJr527R-v-rMFlBlOyjRTUkCidqY7GMF6FrJUmgHrmAlmGzqNQNBPFyE1bIztRipvMj0hBrhvQ-ajbwwJ1J5-460SSIEFxcRZ4PUzN-_ZbkqmYdBZgyuEZKhP3me_kzWYQDjhRk9AFib/s320/DSC02514.JPG" width="320" /></a> I was
amazed by how much Rusiko opened up to me during my time in the village. When I
arrived in August, she wouldn’t say a word to me, instead she would sit in the
corner of the room, carefully tracking my movements with her big green eyes. By
December I had to forcibly keep her away from me: “Russo, stop touching my hair”
“Russo, stop going through my journal” “Russo stop trying to light my shoes on
fire.” She was convinced that she could fit in my backpack and that I could
sneak her into Canada, her mother was even more convinced that I could find her
a “kargia Canadelli bitchi,” a nice Canadian boy. When the time came and I
pulled open the drawstrings of my pack, telling Russo to hop on in, she had a
sudden change of heart, and told me that she’s going to Russia instead. That
didn’t stop the tears from running down her face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Giga was a
man about it. He was uncomfortable with the prospect of me leaving, but he made
me shake his hand and promise to come back one day. The kid is
fifteen-years-old.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJflee8kCKtirMgkF4uKKTSnYjSxkzkGDL3obACddKKE5G65joskxsyMZK2x6Gy_yMVnIyE_e-gm2ARGb-u8r_YrBMXAcFozRNBZgg0ZBrfXmtmH8k9yUw5MBI3yzJDa-DDgYRMNoK1fc/s1600/DSC02489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJflee8kCKtirMgkF4uKKTSnYjSxkzkGDL3obACddKKE5G65joskxsyMZK2x6Gy_yMVnIyE_e-gm2ARGb-u8r_YrBMXAcFozRNBZgg0ZBrfXmtmH8k9yUw5MBI3yzJDa-DDgYRMNoK1fc/s320/DSC02489.JPG" width="320" /></a> My Canadelli
Deda went on a shopping spree before I left. She bought dozens of pens,
pencils, crayons, glue sticks, sheets of paper etc. I used as much of the
supplies as I could during school but everything that was left I collected on a
table in my room. I added to it all of my novels, some electronics and a few
silly Canadian toys. When I showed the family that I was leaving them with all
of this, they completely flipped out. Russiko started bouncing around, Giga’s
smile could have melted a snowman and Dali gave me a big hug. It was probably
the most touching thing I have ever witnessed, thanks Canadian mom, your
thoughtfulness went a long way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last
day of school was interesting. A few of the teachers that I had made friends
with didn’t want me to leave, they truly are nice people that made me feel
welcome. It was the kids that were the hard part. I gave a little speech to
each class, telling them that they were wonderful students and a lot of fun.
Some of them cried, some of them begged me not to go and some of them gave me a
look of utter abandonment. I was crushed.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7z2kXyxM7rAXliJN2lXg2kp3bRy3aa7Jv9bY0cHVB1tI3bRhidLywqng7jSB_R7dUE80ebaDr9NhS5KYvnL7MbEqhitwp_Ef9ktXozbg2i4yOkgKuvR9Bp3lj5mifEunGaEqlebczQ3p/s1600/DSC02482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7z2kXyxM7rAXliJN2lXg2kp3bRy3aa7Jv9bY0cHVB1tI3bRhidLywqng7jSB_R7dUE80ebaDr9NhS5KYvnL7MbEqhitwp_Ef9ktXozbg2i4yOkgKuvR9Bp3lj5mifEunGaEqlebczQ3p/s320/DSC02482.JPG" width="320" /></a> A few of
the older girls gave me love notes written in wonderfully questionable English.
The gesture was immense, it must have taken them a long time to write them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rusiko saw
all of this and wasn’t about to be outdone. We walked home from school together
and she immediately locked herself in her room while I started packing. An hour
later she handed me a note that says she has two brothers, Giga and Zach. I
finally lost it at that point and had to look away, convinced that I suddenly had
something in my eye. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did not
know how to feel on the morning that I left. I didn’t want to leave those two
kids that had become my brother and sister, but I was and still am unbelievably
excited for the next chapter in my life, wherever and whenever that occurs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-88344494220580474932012-12-02T12:55:00.000-08:002012-12-02T12:55:13.929-08:00Midnight Khachapuri <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEb1jHDsGszvLOOb2Ofo52m7BLyGOj4ojrGXaF8lfQOZaVifz6-7n276M5ATCqPh6zJmUPFfdgLSXlXiDhKUImooQpp340xcZzZdPUZM2irri6iy4Y2RDw3Q7ne109mXNXj_gKGySzXq2/s1600/DSC02337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEb1jHDsGszvLOOb2Ofo52m7BLyGOj4ojrGXaF8lfQOZaVifz6-7n276M5ATCqPh6zJmUPFfdgLSXlXiDhKUImooQpp340xcZzZdPUZM2irri6iy4Y2RDw3Q7ne109mXNXj_gKGySzXq2/s400/DSC02337.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t you hate it when you’re brushing your teeth out in the
yard, shivering in the cold mountain air, when you accidently spit toothpaste onto
the family axe? Then you have to scramble to clean it in the dark because that’s
the type of thing that embarrasses you now?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has been
a day of firsts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today was
my first shower in eight days and my second in twenty-three days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A rat keeps
gaining entry into my room through a hole in the ceiling. Sometimes he brings
me early Christmas presents and leaves them on the floor by my bed; a piece of
chewed firewood, bits of string etc. Today was the first time he brought me a
red pepper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight was
my first English lesson of the week. I tutor my host kids in the English
language, everything from conversational to grammar, three times a week. The content
of these lessons depends entirely on how hung-over the villagers have made me that day.
Today the hangover was surprisingly mild, so I decided we should brush up on
our verbs. We went over the basics like ‘carry’ ‘catch’ and ‘cut.’ When we got
to ‘clean,’ Rusiko (the thirteen-year-old giggle monster that she is) informed
me that she ‘cleans the house’ and that she ‘cleans her room’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Very good, Ruso.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then Giga,
my fifteen-year-old Georgian prodigy, said: ‘I clean my grandmother, who is
one-hundred-and-fifty-years-old.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘...that’s very
good of you, Giga.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We moved on to ‘pick-up.’ Rusiko told
me that she picks up her pencil. I told her that I pick up my telephone
sometimes. Then, for some reason, I looked at Giga, dead in the eyes, and told
him that I like to go to the bar and pick-up women.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Yes,’ he
said, a knowing glint in his eyes, ‘I also like this process.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today was
the first time I heard him use the word ‘process.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight was
the first time my host-mom has made midnight khachapuri. We were sitting on the
couch, watching the highlights from this week’s episode of Georgian Dancing with
the Stars (somehow better than the American version) when Giga got a nosebleed. He
tilted his head back to stem the small stream of blood that was dripping down to his chin, and kept
stuffing the cheesy-bread into his mouth. This kid is my new hero.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honestly,
if any wealthy readers out there want a good investment, buy this kid a plane
ticket and give him a few years of university at a western school. This family
lives on 300 lari a month, the equivalent of about $180 CAD, and though they
live better than most in this village, I don’t see how Giga is going to afford
the 3000 lari-per-year tuition to study political science at Batumi University.
In the four months that I’ve been here, he has remembered every single thing
that I have taught him. He has gone from no English to semi-fluent in the same
amount of time that it has taken me to gain ten pounds and grow a moustache. He gets
top marks at school and I don’t doubt for a moment that he could be president
of Georgia one day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6 days left
in the village, 14 left in-country.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kargad!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Zacho</div>
znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-24693598265592431332012-11-29T09:43:00.001-08:002012-11-29T10:10:45.362-08:00It Was the Complete Opposite of Disneyland<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to start off the post with an apology over my serious
lack of entries over the past couple of weeks. Wait, what am I talking about?
This is Georgia; the fact that I’m still alive after the past two weeks is
apology enough. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit in my
living room on a broken, Soviet-era sofa. The television spits out Mexican soap
operas that I travelled ten-thousand kilometers to watch. Sweetened Turkish
coffee sits in my lap, the fire roars to my immediate left, and my host mom,
Dali, is all sorts of up in my face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sickness
carried over into the weekend but I’m feeling much better now. Dali heard me
coughing this morning when I was spending a few blissful moments in bed before
my body hit the frigid air of my room (the product of a rat chewing a hole into
the yard) and she’s on a mission to get me healthy again. She towers over me
from where I sit, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a gigantic spoon filled
with an insane amount of dripping honey, the remnants of the blackened hive still
crushed into it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dali, I’m
not putting that spoon into my mouth.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Tchame,
bitcho!” (Eat, boy)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Meh ar var
bitchi, Dali. Meh var katsi” (I’m not a boy, Dali. I’m a man)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oi shen,
shen, shen! Tchame!” (Oh you, you, you! Eat!)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dali, even
if consuming that amount of honey at one time wouldn’t choke me, I’m not interested.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Grippe!
Grippe! Tchame!” (Sick! Sick! Eat!)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She gives
me that certain look of hers. This look tells me that her family has lived in
this valley for hundreds of years. It tells me that the Persians, the
Mongolians, the Turks and even the Russians couldn’t subjugate her people. It
tells me that despite being a single mother in the desolate, unforgiving
mountains of Adjara, she raised her two kids whilst chopping firewood and
scratching potatoes out of the thin topsoil. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay Dali,
momei puri da meh tchame es.” (Get me bread and I’ll eat this)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Kai bitcho”
she says with the flash of smile as she moves away. I’m a good boy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My weekend started
off the only way it possibly could, with a five-hour marshrutka ride out of the
mountains. It was a holiday Friday, a religious day commemorating Saint Giorgi
(George), the bro who killed a dragon from the back of a horse with nothing but
a pointy stick. I arrived in Batumi in one piece, met up with my friends Jon
from Delaware and Chris from jolly old, and we hopped right back into another
marshrutka. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2eV8xNypw5QoN1EAorVJODZVtSh8yDCJDQwq3tgBJ1e2RYsaMPaFKwU1FvREfTT6C46hb1DqgS7gmUkY38mc_ctKmAUwKwa1z-fO6bkP9i5B917823ti0ts0LmfcXUH44__o7Jxgmcw2/s1600/DSC02472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2eV8xNypw5QoN1EAorVJODZVtSh8yDCJDQwq3tgBJ1e2RYsaMPaFKwU1FvREfTT6C46hb1DqgS7gmUkY38mc_ctKmAUwKwa1z-fO6bkP9i5B917823ti0ts0LmfcXUH44__o7Jxgmcw2/s320/DSC02472.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a perfect photo-op</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our destination
was Zugdidi, which translates to ‘big hill’, a medium-sized town three hours to
the northwest. There we met up with fellow English teachers Derek from ‘Murica,
Corey from Vancouver, Brent also from ‘Murica, Jess from Australia and Michelle
from Kiwi-land. Why did I travel eight hours with a head-cold? Did I do it for
some divine archeological ruins? Did I do it for a girl? Did I do it for an
once-in-a-lifetime experience, never again to be replicated no matter how hard I
try until my body fails me and my spirit roams the earth as a dissatisfied
ghost for all of eternity? No…I did it for a cheeseburger. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friends
and I have been in Georgia for just over three months. We all left a number of
things behind and we all truly feel the absence of certain people in our day-to-day.
Jon misses his girlfriend, Derek misses his boyfriend, Chris misses his mother
and father, Corey misses his wife. Those people are all thousands of miles away
from us, scattered about the world in small pockets of civilization and
preserved in our memories like amber. We can’t do anything about that at the
moment. But what we can do is put a little bit of cow between a couple slices
of bread, wash it down with some beer, and feel content with the people we do
have around us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A night of
too much beer directly preceded a morning with too little water. Us boys got ourselves
together and headed out for some shwarma. The Turkish treat took the brunt of
the hangover, the carbonation of a soft drink took another sizeable portion of
it, and the crisp autumn air took the rest. We stumbled around the town like
neglected shadows, shells of the men that we were three months ago, and we had
a lot of fun bullshitting; finally speaking English with really nothing at all
to say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtHGk7hp_BggsJWMVtepzaMBLOtYWiOozDe-_8euC061O4E3DJNics339K6DS6kvNELHX9jlIrQOa6XMR9S6LedILtmVEo055-ix8F9KR02CPJozTp_EUoBWbxfa_k8lSxZz36jAMvHp5/s1600/DSC02465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtHGk7hp_BggsJWMVtepzaMBLOtYWiOozDe-_8euC061O4E3DJNics339K6DS6kvNELHX9jlIrQOa6XMR9S6LedILtmVEo055-ix8F9KR02CPJozTp_EUoBWbxfa_k8lSxZz36jAMvHp5/s320/DSC02465.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did I mention how far away our wives and girlfriends were?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
John, Chris
and I said our goodbyes and headed for the marshrutka stand outside of the town’s
dilapidated train station. We had a of couple hours to kill so we found some
steps, busted out some sunflower seeds and pretzels, and enjoyed the warmth of
the failing sunlight. We soon felt our bladders begin to fill, which is never a
good sensation in a country with little in the way of public facilities. The
train station? No, there won’t be a toilet in there. A tree? No, there are too
many people around. Hold it? No, the bus journey could take up to three hours. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris and I
found ourselves in desperation mode. We started walking, stopped an old Russian
bloke, and in broken Georgian implored him as to where we could void ourselves.
He vaguely gestured and we set off, hoping against hope that he didn’t send us
to a portal to hell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We found
ourselves in front of a decrepit concrete building. Six spires reached towards
the heavens from each side of a curved dome. Inside were vaulted ceilings,
fecal-matter splayed at eye-level, and a suspicious red liquid pooled on the
floor. A man stood behind a counter, his face completely hidden by a wooden
screen. He gestured but he did not speak. I handed over forty-tetri, double the
price, and had the scariest, most satisfying moment of my life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmiGHYRjGVf8xDVSaNE_63XP_SL5UjJjhOsFBlWrAgjlkB-ZrIftglImkP9IYuc5uvR115MQSYn0GNazp11R8IItasFbuuZY4f2EeFu0vOPmPtefSCzcGpV-eplGnA-UMgsWemfOeuUWTd/s1600/DSC02470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmiGHYRjGVf8xDVSaNE_63XP_SL5UjJjhOsFBlWrAgjlkB-ZrIftglImkP9IYuc5uvR115MQSYn0GNazp11R8IItasFbuuZY4f2EeFu0vOPmPtefSCzcGpV-eplGnA-UMgsWemfOeuUWTd/s320/DSC02470.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Took us 3 hours to realize one of our group members<br />
was an old Georgian lady</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was not
until Chris and I found ourselves back on the marshrutka that we realized we
were in the presence of Beelzebub. We were shaken. It had been the complete opposite
of Disneyland. Every kilometer that separated us from that place gave us a
little more hope in the world; restored a little more beauty in our eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jon hopped
off the bus early, leaving Chris and I to bro-out hard in Batumi for the night.
We checked into our hostel, had a much needed wash (separately), and set off
into the monsoon in search of some food and some beer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Half-way
through a pastry, hastily consumed in an entranceway to a block of flats, I
realized the solution to our money woes. I remembered a lively little Georgian restaurant;
we could drink 1.50 beers and eat 80-tetri kinkali, converting to about 1
dollar and 30 cents Canadian respectively. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were there for about a half hour, watching
football on T.V. and talking about how truly ridiculous life is sometimes, when
a rowdy table of big Georgian men invited us over. We were downing shots of
vodka and eating khachapuri when I thought to ask them about their current employment
situation. One man was in the coast guard, one was in the army, one was a
border guard and the other was Georgian search and rescue. I jokingly said, “you
are very good friends to have!” and one of them replied, “yes, very good friends,”
whilst showing me a pistol under the table. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sought
out Chris’s eyes, mimed the international signal for ‘holy shit this guy has a
gun’ but it was too late. One man had Chris standing on a chair, pointing a
stern finger in his face and yelling at him because Chris hesitated when asked
if he loved England. We planned our escape and just before we jumped up to run
out the door, one man paid our bill for us. We ran down the street, laughing
about our good fortune and the day we had had. The rest of the night was a blur:
I think I bought an Iranian man some fruit juice and picked his brain about politics
while Chris was busy teleporting about the city. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have 8
days left in the village and 16 days left in-country. Pray for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kargad!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Zacho</div>
znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-40853721422879743392012-11-20T10:13:00.000-08:002012-11-20T10:13:56.970-08:00Sick as a Dzagli<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjkX0_X7mcgT-fpKia-4K3wTPTWzkH2S6P7rtnl62m2j5UHtM1tsfl_yvzKbshElymFE4VW4_uii4SLEmpXAvFWbSP3LnmkBhyaQTB7YDRl-MZTdX5VmhmX54FcZVkN55Ow5GkpGpKCWt/s1600/DSC02453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjkX0_X7mcgT-fpKia-4K3wTPTWzkH2S6P7rtnl62m2j5UHtM1tsfl_yvzKbshElymFE4VW4_uii4SLEmpXAvFWbSP3LnmkBhyaQTB7YDRl-MZTdX5VmhmX54FcZVkN55Ow5GkpGpKCWt/s320/DSC02453.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only dzagli in Georgia I wouldn't mind <br />getting rabies from</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To those of you who are irregularly checking the blog from both here and around the world, I'm not dead yet. I've been taken down by yet another sickness, my sixth in four months, and I have been unable to do anything other than read and cough. I tried updating this blog a few days ago but writing when you're sick is like playing solitaire when you're drunk, its lonely and you often miss the point. It's a brutal existence here when you feel like crap, I sit on the couch with a book and a cup of tea and my Georgian mother yells at me for being sick...this has gone on for four days.<br />
Here are the top 5 reasons, no joke, that my host mother has given me for my current illness:<br />
1. I read too much<br />
2. I'm on the computer too much<br />
3. I have cold hands<br />
4. My socks aren't thick enough<br />
5. I went outside without my slippers on...once<br />
Of course, it has nothing to do with the schools communal water cup. Now before this trip I had never been around children much before, but did you know that they are always sick? They constantly cough and sneeze and drool and put everything within an arm-length in their mouths. That's all well and fine, some people back home have told me that this is completely natural, but never, ever have I ever heard of a communal water cup.<br />
There are perhaps 100 students in my school, plus ten or so teachers give or take. At the front of the school there is one hose jutting from a concrete slab and on top of this slab sits the cup. During each break, children of all ages come to slurp greedily from this little wooden chalice. This is either the most foolhardy, ridiculous thing that I have ever seen in my life, or it is genius in its archaicness. One child in the village gets sick, they all get sick. One child builds up the antibodies to a certain virus, so must all the rest.<br />
The only problem is when a fragile little Canadian comes over, touches a book or a pencil, and then accidentally sticks his finger in his mouth like a complete jackass...six times. <br />
Kargad!znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-29925884409477621322012-11-12T12:21:00.003-08:002012-11-12T12:49:08.644-08:00Zacho Wants You to Figure Your Shit Out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLTkVYBXHNRU7v7cEpmOpshcXOet5uvm0Att9K-xMl6_yY5WBrcxfxhEUE8nlFeGhTpy1isXsqN8puG44IMpNUCN-AojUG6UF6CIXhsjmz7Fp33xGoqv_jTwYwXRePs3yt83_lm20HIyLZ/s1600/DSC02011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLTkVYBXHNRU7v7cEpmOpshcXOet5uvm0Att9K-xMl6_yY5WBrcxfxhEUE8nlFeGhTpy1isXsqN8puG44IMpNUCN-AojUG6UF6CIXhsjmz7Fp33xGoqv_jTwYwXRePs3yt83_lm20HIyLZ/s320/DSC02011.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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What do you want out of life?</div>
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What lengths are you willing to go in order to achieve it?</div>
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Our
families are models for us, whether we want to admit that or not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As far as I can tell, each member of my family wants
something different out of life. My wonderful Mother, with her deep intellect and capacity for understanding,
I think she wants to put her spirit in the right place. My rolling stone Father, who puts
down countries like the rest of us put down beer bottles, I think he wants
insight into the human condition. My dear Sister, tugging along a backpack full of textbooks 7 years
out of college, I think she wants enlightenment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What am I
supposed to do with that?</div>
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I think the
most compassionate thing that we can do as human beings is to accept that everybody
wants something different out of their 81.4 years. I think we lose that. I
think that hurts us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for me,
I have no idea. I guess I jump face first into new experiences and hope that
something will grab me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Currently,
it takes me four or five hours to get to civilization, depending on how drunk
the <i>marshrutka</i> driver is (they drive
faster when they’re plastered).</div>
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That’s the
equivalent of driving from Vancouver to Kelowna for wifi. That's like flying
from Calgary to Montreal just to sit down when you go to the bathroom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did I find
whatever it was that I was looking for? Does putting the mind in seclusion open up the soul?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have less
than five weeks left and so far, nothing yet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it’s
an epiphany that will hit me as soon as I step off the plane and into that
fresh B.C. air. Maybe I’ll find it during my next adventure. Maybe I’ll be a
bitter old man, cheating another bitter old man at chess, when it will hit me
like a sack of Georgian potatoes. Maybe I’ll never find it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess the
point in all of this is that it’s never too late to try and figure it out. Opportunities may
pass us, but we can always make new ones. We gotta love those around us, hope for a
little love back, and keep on truckin’ till we figure it all out.</div>
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Wow,
introspective posts sure make me hungry, what’s for dinner?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEict8t4LhaXpl7tdsbatjWHnwIe_dJkH9M8IajVpLEdX-SpgSctWfGrIjdszjHEK8Nzs2in7PLcisDqivnMfcQgSxcAxOIt6tzY7qSBPmwhvzkzg1mCiMbidDqR1DgeWMBOepuNAjdN29-B/s1600/DSC02336.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEict8t4LhaXpl7tdsbatjWHnwIe_dJkH9M8IajVpLEdX-SpgSctWfGrIjdszjHEK8Nzs2in7PLcisDqivnMfcQgSxcAxOIt6tzY7qSBPmwhvzkzg1mCiMbidDqR1DgeWMBOepuNAjdN29-B/s400/DSC02336.JPG" width="400" /></a> </div>
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Maybe its khachapuri night! One of the national dishes of Georgia, its literally just bread filled with cheese. This is a North American stomach's wet dream...if only it wasn't filled with Georgian cheese...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwEuF6ygApJh5xWBmVsanXTBQHNchX6LkM4Z0gEstOPmXWol7Syq7P7OZkBN9ABgwvqjAaNDXwmI8sD0ioKkQNKVx7b6mtSCEQeqmrxTqReNS-tmpb7C95PWAZwQ-6ZOz4UAsgaWQA_L5/s1600/DSC02307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwEuF6ygApJh5xWBmVsanXTBQHNchX6LkM4Z0gEstOPmXWol7Syq7P7OZkBN9ABgwvqjAaNDXwmI8sD0ioKkQNKVx7b6mtSCEQeqmrxTqReNS-tmpb7C95PWAZwQ-6ZOz4UAsgaWQA_L5/s400/DSC02307.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Oooh maybe we're having khinkali! This is Georgia's other national dish: dumplings filled with spiced meat. The trick is never to eat the little nub at the end, this shows that you aren't an impoverished little girl. No complaints here.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgC1q-zO92-8T_pORYRKiagyzcKia3IITMWiS93qgu44zD63fzubhjWKOCwRlJtQ84hVwWULq_eurvY9mbFuxj6df8DNII20YwLsquyLJKvDEm0outl1O38RZ1cWqLJDf-7B2tbY7zfc2/s1600/DSC02310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgC1q-zO92-8T_pORYRKiagyzcKia3IITMWiS93qgu44zD63fzubhjWKOCwRlJtQ84hVwWULq_eurvY9mbFuxj6df8DNII20YwLsquyLJKvDEm0outl1O38RZ1cWqLJDf-7B2tbY7zfc2/s400/DSC02310.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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It's still autumn and everybody knows what that means...weird white pumpkin/squash-thing season! They crack these babies open, toss them on the fire, and scoop out their warm innards by hand. Oddly enough, the only thing that Georgians don't put salt on.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_-5xM3iL4Sm3SSgm3GnldZEQh74jVZM5RzG-A4bvZ3K0WhI7M7VA9Gducenm5rayzOxCMCxUgaigtQhPgVTIAVLEfvmBBJODWs7LKh13ns9156Wz73V9xuVGS_4xakFoQBeJx7FMi0sx/s1600/DSC02301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_-5xM3iL4Sm3SSgm3GnldZEQh74jVZM5RzG-A4bvZ3K0WhI7M7VA9Gducenm5rayzOxCMCxUgaigtQhPgVTIAVLEfvmBBJODWs7LKh13ns9156Wz73V9xuVGS_4xakFoQBeJx7FMi0sx/s400/DSC02301.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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What's that? You've put on 10 pounds in 3 months by eating nothing but bread and potatoes? Not getting enough protein in your diet? One of the many benefits of living with a Muslim family is that just when you think you'd strangle Ronald Mcdonald for the chance to lick the grease off of a cheeseburger wrapper, your village slaughters 15 cows in one night!<br />
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So far, this has been my favourite dish. Beef (nuggets?) fried up in an unspeakable amount of oil, accompanied by salad that I'm pretty sure host Mom stored in the cupboard for a week.</div>
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One week later...I've eaten so much beef that I think I'm starting to go blind. In this incarnation, we have stewed beef, complete will all the bones and gristle you can choke on. For garnish, we have borano! Borano is sharp, oily melted cheese, fried in even more oil and placed in front of your whilst still boiling. It's like fondue...without all of the things that make fondue delicious.</div>
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How about some grape juice to wash it all down? My family takes grapes right off of the vine and makes their own (fuck you, food hipsters) and yes...that is an inch of sugar at the bottom of the jar.</div>
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I couldn't eat another bite. What's that? Why are you yelling at me? Oh...you made me cake and Turkish coffee. Well, as an honoured guest in the land of hospitality, surely I can't decline.</div>
<br />
Kargad!<br />
- Zacho<br />
<br />znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-42517829698331501432012-11-07T09:54:00.004-08:002012-11-07T10:16:21.391-08:00Zacho Gets All Spiritual and Stuff<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was
talking to a friend of mine today, British Chris, about Dostoyevsky, a writer I
both hate and admire and hate to admire. Dostoyevsky says that ‘it is not
miracles that incline a realist towards faith...in the realist it is not faith
that is born of miracles, but miracles of faith.’ As a realist, I tend to agree
with Papa Fyodor, I mean the man was a true Russian badass: his writing got him
sentenced to death, reprieved, put into a Gulag, released, and made him wealthy
before he gambled it all away. So what happens when a realist is presented with
something so awe-inspiring, so humbling, and so deeply spiritual that it
appears as an undeniable miracle to their eyes? Ladies and gentlemen, I present
to you: Vardzia. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHqRGyNnF3HcoWihUkB2sYsPPrFL9FCIDJr5xD1mgRxgLkRO55sPkkFrKu5u5G0lczkItzdvQMNKuaZlD6J-E3O-aKeV6cTJ5X4ma29u5GaAQhnqQI41jZqdz8vO5Yi_9kvcK9uYK6kPp/s1600/P1030567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHqRGyNnF3HcoWihUkB2sYsPPrFL9FCIDJr5xD1mgRxgLkRO55sPkkFrKu5u5G0lczkItzdvQMNKuaZlD6J-E3O-aKeV6cTJ5X4ma29u5GaAQhnqQI41jZqdz8vO5Yi_9kvcK9uYK6kPp/s400/P1030567.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Perhaps
it’s a place you have to see with your own eyes, but I’ve trekked to Machu
Picchu and I’ve been to the Mayan temples at Chichen Itza, I’ve seen places
like Stonehenge and Notre Dame de Paris and countless other sites where faith
meets ingenuity and the human character triumphs...but I’ve never felt as
strong of a spiritual connection to the world as I did at Vardzia. I swear it
wasn’t the chacha. </div>
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Vardzia was
built sometime in the 12<sup>th</sup> century, an entire monastery built within
a mountain in order to protect the monks from the weather, Mongols, Persians
and Turks. The Persians and Turks ended up sacking the place, driving the monks
away for a final time back in the late 16<sup>th</sup> century. The human
spirit persists, however, and the monks have started coming back to live and
pray in the caves. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEictWf4KWdsHdy3rUQSP461-7M0af_x6Qng-xHz46jHwv9q81MqOuAZ1PZmQPAjzPxgTo4chLXks8qaVyPXnn0aYZ9M4j1Y54smwsK0-aLvIJsHRwgfX_kYuyW6o8N2Y4TbvxLQ1iT7q9sT/s1600/DSC02441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEictWf4KWdsHdy3rUQSP461-7M0af_x6Qng-xHz46jHwv9q81MqOuAZ1PZmQPAjzPxgTo4chLXks8qaVyPXnn0aYZ9M4j1Y54smwsK0-aLvIJsHRwgfX_kYuyW6o8N2Y4TbvxLQ1iT7q9sT/s400/DSC02441.JPG" width="300" /></a> I do not
know what it was that really struck me about this place in particular. It was
visually stunning, sometimes eerily quiet, and placed in a perfect green valley
with a trickling blue river. I don’t believe it was the physical nature of the
place. I think it was the fact Vardzia illustrates the lengths that people will
go to protect something that they believe in; and as I’m not a religious person, the
metaphor appeared even stronger to me. If we, as the present incarnation of
the human race, could stand by our convictions to such an extent that we would
excavate a goddamned mountain by hand to preserve them, what are we truly
capable of?</div>
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Vardzia was
just one stop in a weekend full of adventures, however. It was a dear friend’s
birthday, the name of whom I can’t quite recall, but we assembled in Borjomi, a
little town in the Lesser Caucasus, to celebrate. We walked through a forest
that was so calm and peaceful that we forgot we were in Georgia. We explored a castle, swam in a
hot spring reputed for its ‘healing powers,’ and we crossed a river on a log and
built a fire on the far shore. We also drank a lot of terrible Georgian wine. <br />
All in all it was a terrific weekend,
a much needed reprieve from the village life. I doubt I can stretch another 25
days straight here without going insane but I’ll just have to wait and see; the
10 hour round-trip out of the mountains in the most horrible form of
transportation imaginable, the <i>marshrutka</i>,
is a heavy price to pay just to stop myself from talking to the livestock. I’m
going to finish off this post with some pictures of last weekend, I hope
everyone that is reading this back home and around the world gets a chance to
find something that gives them a little faith, even if it’s simply a little
faith in humanity.</div>
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Kargad!</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> - </span><!--[endif]-->Zacho</div>
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znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-66558992058440986322012-10-30T12:20:00.001-07:002012-10-30T13:17:29.147-07:00Zacho Falls Off a House<div>
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I woke up angry on Sunday, though I’m not quite sure why. Tomorrow will be 24 days in the village without a break; 24 days
without speaking in complete sentences, 24 days of eating questionable food,
and that’s 24 days with only two unsatisfying showers. I’m not complaining,
this is what I signed up for, what I live for in a lot of ways, but I’d be
lying if I said I was certain that it didn’t factor into how I felt. </div>
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I think
what mostly put me into a foul mood was the epitome I had the night before. I
was staring off at the mountains, looking without seeing, when I realized that
this is the first time in my life that I’ve lived in a state resembling poverty.
I was fortunate enough to be born to loving parents that did (do) everything in
their power to keep me fed and comfortable. That makes me the minority in this
world. There are entire continents full people that are trying to eat, and I come
from the only continent full of people that are trying to stop. </div>
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And then I
realized that I’m just visiting. In two months time I’ll go back to buying 5
dollar coffee and this unsteady world will persist into the twenty-first
century. It was a cripplingly somber thought, but I vowed to forever be conscious of my actions. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnyd4MbQAgmvlIYMuhzLx6FkMRFo8e5kymUNA6beOWSNXtNUYxmApm3eY-m2eeLrh55E7b9GYRPJOEdqIMR8Eg9FnXgj2BTyxLLV_Eq3CJ9ii0DgZSLo1j7LTaN-OwXZ3NZY_y6821X5eD/s1600/DSC02320.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnyd4MbQAgmvlIYMuhzLx6FkMRFo8e5kymUNA6beOWSNXtNUYxmApm3eY-m2eeLrh55E7b9GYRPJOEdqIMR8Eg9FnXgj2BTyxLLV_Eq3CJ9ii0DgZSLo1j7LTaN-OwXZ3NZY_y6821X5eD/s400/DSC02320.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up in the Mountains</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The next
morning, I rolled off my bed, slouched over my morning chai, and was informed
that today I was going on a ‘holiday’. I am by no means a veteran of this
country, but I’ve been here long enough not to ask what they meant, the answer
would only leave me more confused. </div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> There’s
an expression with the expats in this country, when you ask somebody what time
an event is at they always add the appendage GMT: Georgian Maybe Time. I sat on
the roadside for over an hour waiting for my holiday to begin, just as I was
about to leave the marshrutka (van) picked me up. I was heading deeper into the
mountains.</span></div>
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Along the way I peppered my fifteen-year-old host brother
with questions, my eyes scanning the countryside for familiar landmarks so that
I could walk home. A copy of <i>The Brothers
Karamazov</i> was burning a hole in my bedside table; I desperately wanted to
curl up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After an
hour, we finally reached our destination high above the valley. I finally received
some answers too: my holiday was to a sixteen-year-old girl’s first wedding anniversary.
Go back and reread that last sentence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zacho was
going to his first supra. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A supra is
a Georgian feast, a celebratory event, instantly recognizable by its tables
loaded with food, wine, and chacha. A supra always has a <i>tamada</i>, a toastmaster, who spends the night hanging onto the end of
a table giving long, rambling speeches about every five minutes. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_L1UGzzTbPOaKtNW4T957Fngql6PX2vJJlTEXpJS6_G9-AVEVLZi_e4Z4Elbme9wTdkwegdRd9oylCiEUF0YYa4FIDU_ZYZO1PuJkndGBlKLT0LhJoNuMYunHOp7Aj35WkkWm5xZV53b/s1600/DSC02323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_L1UGzzTbPOaKtNW4T957Fngql6PX2vJJlTEXpJS6_G9-AVEVLZi_e4Z4Elbme9wTdkwegdRd9oylCiEUF0YYa4FIDU_ZYZO1PuJkndGBlKLT0LhJoNuMYunHOp7Aj35WkkWm5xZV53b/s400/DSC02323.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Party Central, the Bride in the Red</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fifty of us
silently filed into a room, I tried a few cheery gamarjobas (hellos) out on a couple of people, but I was met with faces of unwavering stone. We sat down at two long
tables overflowing with beef, chicken, bread, vegetables and fruit. As soon as
we took our places, people began to eat without speaking. At small intervals along
the table were plastic Tupperware pitchers that I assumed were filled with
water. Almost choking to death on a chicken bone, I asked the man beside me to
fill my glass. When I put the cup to my lips, I choked again on the sickly-sweet
taste of Georgian wine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As soon as
the tamada took his place at the head of my table and gave his first speech,
the party began in earnest. Georgians pride themselves on their speeches: long,
confusing affairs that can last over ten minutes. When Georgians finish giving a
speech, you cheers (<i>gamarjos!</i>) but
only with your right hand, and only after the person giving the speech has
drank. It doesn’t matter if you’re drinking beer, wine or moonshine, you always
finish your drink in one gulp. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAX7FY9s1-vr7_5nS4cyIOjJ6pgCw3KvOz2p9oSndWuW1NOOwKBhx99omgouoKeq7PpBxQFlneDNlT3orCVY_7uJQCnbT6caWljA32_XU0GdT_oW6VauSPKYG6oTzXCYgHWWFK2G_uDU_/s1600/DSC02327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAX7FY9s1-vr7_5nS4cyIOjJ6pgCw3KvOz2p9oSndWuW1NOOwKBhx99omgouoKeq7PpBxQFlneDNlT3orCVY_7uJQCnbT6caWljA32_XU0GdT_oW6VauSPKYG6oTzXCYgHWWFK2G_uDU_/s400/DSC02327.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Talking Champagne Showers: Bubbly and Baklava for the Happy Couple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thank the
almighty Allah that I was sitting in the wine section that night, because the
speeches piled on, increasing in frequency and decreasing in length. At one
point, the men around my table stood and took turns toasting the happy couple.
On a whim I too stood up and thanked them, President Saakashvili, her Majesty
Queen Elizabeth the Second, the Right Honourable Stephen Harper and the Sedin
twins. When I sat back down, a stupid, shit-eating grin on my face, I was met
with wide eyes. Nobody in the room had understood a word that I had said but they
sure were shocked that I had stood up. Almost imperceptibly, something changed
and my table erupted in laughter, my back stung from the good-natured slaps it received.
I had done exactly the right thing: I had returned the honor that they had
given me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The clouds of
bitter Russian tobacco smoke forced me to go outside, but not before I
two-stepped in a sea of gorgeous women, egged on by the irritatingly high
eyebrows and wide grins of their <i>patroni’s</i>
(chaperones). A few mothers informed me that they had designs on me and I
thought it best to slip outside before I woke up married. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reached a
little wooden balcony, brought out my trusty Nokia, and called a friend to tell
him to call the government if he didn’t hear from me for a couple of days. I
held the phone to my ear with my shoulder, my arms fanned out in front of me in
a casual manner, my hands gently sought the railing and I fell off the goddamned
house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was
only 6 feet, but it was onto rock, and the three extra summersaults I did down
the slope sure didn’t help. When I later talked to my friend on the phone, he
said he had heard a thud, followed by nothing but Georgian voices. I can’t
believe he didn’t hear the sound of my pride shattering. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjup9Q4ska8tHqr3tQBBwhadCt8ZkFqFsmkBrTJkbF7U8L04Oxcl0GLmgBydajesDT9800FalvKrplZPVrZNItixXamEiIPoFGGGgDT_Vv_OTd6CGx-TtcjkFzJQh8c99xtBN4AoWBrp9_X/s1600/DSC02331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjup9Q4ska8tHqr3tQBBwhadCt8ZkFqFsmkBrTJkbF7U8L04Oxcl0GLmgBydajesDT9800FalvKrplZPVrZNItixXamEiIPoFGGGgDT_Vv_OTd6CGx-TtcjkFzJQh8c99xtBN4AoWBrp9_X/s400/DSC02331.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Moonshine Bandage and My Awesome Georgian Slippers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picked
myself up, found my phone, critically weighed the pros and cons of crying,
thought better of it, and called Papa Corey, the grizzled Canadian leader of
our group. I could not put any weight on my right knee, my hands and elbows
were bleeding, and I honestly couldn’t tell if I had hit my head. Corey kept me
calm, talked me through it, and gave me some pretty sound advice. By a small
miracle, I crawled into the only marshrutka that was headed towards my village,
somehow got back to my house, and crashed heavily onto the couch, laughing like
an idiot the entire time. Host mom took one look at my knee, and went and
grabbed a bottle of chacha. I cringed, the room was already spinning and I
doubted that more moonshine was going to help, but she pulled out a rag, doused
it with the clear liquid, and wrapped it around my knee. The pain was so great
that I had no choice but to laugh even louder. What a spectacular holiday. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some
point in this adventure I talked to my father on the phone. When I woke up, he
had sent the following to me in an email:<br />
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">perhaps you should
send along a couple of contacts there – just in case you take in the wrong
combination of chacha, palinka, wine, beer, vodka, bad meat and schnapps, and
decide to go live in the hills for a while, chasing small furry animals, and we
have to track you down."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Too late, Dad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kargad!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zacho</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-31609033869099831092012-10-25T07:06:00.002-07:002012-10-25T07:20:31.516-07:00I Have Seen the Face of Dog<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sickness that had met me with the weekend had all but
vanished by Sunday. I woke up feeling chipper but anxious, outwardly calm yet
wracked with inner turmoil. I needed something to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisatCtdJORHbB9MsOb-3smrbKv2YYgvHXp-qUXhXqZWCrx0wHTtTMth1q1f6U8j0B5nq4JOhRWJo7qS8pR2nbKgEwJDPffiVIf38erMp_vSJWGoubSp5Jn14leeBle5n7yxUuGjm1PcuEE/s1600/IMG_0100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisatCtdJORHbB9MsOb-3smrbKv2YYgvHXp-qUXhXqZWCrx0wHTtTMth1q1f6U8j0B5nq4JOhRWJo7qS8pR2nbKgEwJDPffiVIf38erMp_vSJWGoubSp5Jn14leeBle5n7yxUuGjm1PcuEE/s320/IMG_0100.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bardnali shrouded with cloud</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Entering
the third week of my month long self-banishment to the mountains, I’m starting
to go a little crazy. Long periods of inactivity leave you restless, and any
interaction with the people of Kvatia is often unsatisfying for both parties.
Neither of us ever know what the hell the other person is talking about and
even the sign-language of the Caucasus is as foreign to me as their tongue.
When I say that I am the only person for miles and miles that speaks English,
what I’m really saying is that I’m the only person for miles and miles that
does not speak Georgian. You have to learn to be your own confidant, your own psychiatrist,
and your own best friend. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Sunday
morning crept around, it was time to climb that damned mountain that had been
mean-mugging me since I first got here two months ago. I stuffed my face with
melted cheese, slurped down a Turkish coffee and hit the road at the bleary-eyed
hour of 12pm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family did not want me to go on this little hike at all. One of the purposes
of the TLG program is to facilitate a cultural exchange, yet this is entirely
one-sided. My eyes widen when I learn of the intricacies of Georgian culture,
my mind plays host to little debates as I argue with myself over the logic,
historical context, and present-day consequences of getting drunk on moonshine
at 10am or yelling at a person who is standing two feet away from you. When my
family recognizes things that are important to my culture, such as maintaining
a certain level of physical fitness, hygiene, and spending all of my money on
useless gadgets, they just laugh in my face and shake their heads. They
seriously could not understand what made me want to climb that mountain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxaTDOnfsxodT3Ltm0UNQ33-FjtU3FOPsglfc1UvQ3rihcFMs1w7krVR9gh3ylKCzzxhR3XNSgZHaJbZA9xggl6r4thRcnVgFWYox9-KTh8mtKW_PumhcPj6T23tani1oup0y4ZPgZYoV1/s1600/DSC02230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxaTDOnfsxodT3Ltm0UNQ33-FjtU3FOPsglfc1UvQ3rihcFMs1w7krVR9gh3ylKCzzxhR3XNSgZHaJbZA9xggl6r4thRcnVgFWYox9-KTh8mtKW_PumhcPj6T23tani1oup0y4ZPgZYoV1/s320/DSC02230.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The range behind me curves across the border into Turkey</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I waited until they were collectively bent over
a bucket of grapes and then I made my escape. I immediately felt better: the pent
up frustration from work, the homesickness, the physical sickness, the confusion
over my life and the lives of those around me, it was all expended in the sweat
that dripped down my face or in the vapour of my warm breath as it hit the
chilly autumn air. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I made my
way down through the village, tipping my ball cap to smiling young men and
women, wrinkled old babushkas, and screaming children who kicked empty beer
bottles around the street. I crossed the valley and began to climb for the next
three hours. The meandering switchbacks of the dirt road gave way to narrow,
snaking lanes of rock and gravel. Nothing but the stoutest of Russian jeeps
would make it up here, a place the locals call <i>Bardnali</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlKe0WK-C1SpXZ5bkRII_uGoh1ypPqLGJ6a8DZH1o2g-gJhkuHxoQKleZQhBDwgtBWVSqtKnspoOh-ioD_Sra3XqshVKGGwoWSqH9cnW4e435YH4Zx2i1mE_nFOrTIyf-zi6H55xedFH9/s1600/DSC02223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlKe0WK-C1SpXZ5bkRII_uGoh1ypPqLGJ6a8DZH1o2g-gJhkuHxoQKleZQhBDwgtBWVSqtKnspoOh-ioD_Sra3XqshVKGGwoWSqH9cnW4e435YH4Zx2i1mE_nFOrTIyf-zi6H55xedFH9/s320/DSC02223.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
An hour
went steadily by. I broke up the climb with short water breaks or opportunities
for self-portraits, remember what I said about being your own friend? I
stumbled around sheep, danced around cows, and jumped over fallen logs, but
there was one barrier that was not so eager to be conquered: a frightfully rabid
dog. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My route took
me through a cheerful meadow, complete with a herd of lazy cows who were taking
advantage of the pleasant afternoon the only way that they knew how: eating
grass. If I didn’t have my headphones in and cranked to the new Mumford and
Sons, I probably would have noticed the barking, but alas, I was jamming. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dog
came flying around a disinterested bull and stopped before me, all teeth and
matted fur, barring my way. Saliva dripped out of its fearsome jaws, its eyes
mere slits filled with an unmistakable hunger: the hunger for Canadian flesh. I
looked up towards the top of the mountain and then back down to the valley, I
did not want to turn around; I wanted to keep this good feeling going. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a
Caucas dog, bred over thousands of years for one purpose: to fight wolves to
the death. I pulled the headphones out of my ears and implored my bovine
brethren for assistance but they politely refused to become involved. If I hadn’t
been eating nothing but cheese for the past 8 weeks I probably would have
messed myself. This was dire. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL0wiZqe9BPj6HTdihnJDu-B29WJprcONLIFcZjUE82lmdKozAcgQ31Dmj21eEGzzS_ejHh0nCH3X1bgwGvudQ6VuOi5PI0mhKwKC7R4mysAzf9b0Jhhb2hXRHQuRFrPqg2f2zW9wnK_30/s1600/DSC02234.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL0wiZqe9BPj6HTdihnJDu-B29WJprcONLIFcZjUE82lmdKozAcgQ31Dmj21eEGzzS_ejHh0nCH3X1bgwGvudQ6VuOi5PI0mhKwKC7R4mysAzf9b0Jhhb2hXRHQuRFrPqg2f2zW9wnK_30/s320/DSC02234.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almost there</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I am a
great lover of dogs, I think they make terrific companions, and I’m always the
first one to walk up to strange canines and give them a good scratch behind the
ears. However, during our orientation in Tbilisi, the government informed us
that a sizeable proportion of Georgian dogs have rabies. No big deal, rabies
won’t kill you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then they
told us that after taking the rabies vaccine, you weren’t able to consume
alcohol for six months. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My right
hand reached for my knife while my left searched the ground for a big enough
rock to brain this beast. Dog lover or not, I’m not about to go down without a
fight. You aren’t supposed to make eye contact with an angry dog but screw
that, I thought, I’m gonna stare this thing down while I walk right on by it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I began a
slow shuffle towards my fate, muscles tensed, arms locked, jaw set. Cerberus stood his ground,
growling and snapping at the air, a strip of black hair on its back standing
straight up. Five feet (more snapping), four feet (its weight shifting to its
back paws), three feet (black eyes starting to roll back), two feet (I begin to
shake). As I closed in, right when I was certain that the dog was about to
spring towards my neck, a shrill whistle filled the crisp afternoon air. The
dog sat back on its haunches, its tongue came out, and it blinked agreeably at
me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQAfApKSWMBR6qepRJrF7YHi0shuSJZUJQhqlaPitKfj9QwRyWp6S6gNWPqWxebuXxkYedWhLxDXi0CnCCuEJNZRzXv9Bd9DbIDV6gLz3ljUmkhe6EddfCv4MZzH7Y4zWQ-k08H2xWN77s/s1600/DSC02248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQAfApKSWMBR6qepRJrF7YHi0shuSJZUJQhqlaPitKfj9QwRyWp6S6gNWPqWxebuXxkYedWhLxDXi0CnCCuEJNZRzXv9Bd9DbIDV6gLz3ljUmkhe6EddfCv4MZzH7Y4zWQ-k08H2xWN77s/s320/DSC02248.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally made it</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Another
blast and the dog jumped up and trotted away. I looked up towards my saviour and
found an eight-year-old child, a student of mine, who was giggling while the
dog was eagerly licking his face. The headphones went back in and I crushed the
rest of the mountain, when the adrenaline wore off my pace slackened, but I
made it home before nightfall in a state approaching bliss. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family
later informed me that they could hear me talking in my sleep on Sunday night;
I bet I was still thanking that boy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On a side
note, it has dawned on me that perhaps the readers of this blog would enjoy a
perspective on Georgia other than my own. There are fifty-eight people in my
intake and fifty-eight blogs to go with them, but I enjoy my friend Sanchez’s
quite a bit. He has a down to earth, no-nonsense style that I believe contrasts
quite nicely with my own, so you guys should check him out at <a href="http://sanchezjohnson.wordpress.com/">http://sanchezjohnson.wordpress.com/</a>,
particularly his article entitled “I’m a Grown-Ass Man!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kargad!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Zacho</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8C9k2fjXP-3qZvM1hNqrjg3W_AvN0Oxk4J7mNOZNKr06yJBUuIIlFNTFX2skcOlkmmBy5CyvuM2PvOWzEHsJ0N21edVgiAYdrns81x6a5ISk4K9S9W21KN6ZU_mYWXCFHkkGPPNj7HBc/s1600/DSC02259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8C9k2fjXP-3qZvM1hNqrjg3W_AvN0Oxk4J7mNOZNKr06yJBUuIIlFNTFX2skcOlkmmBy5CyvuM2PvOWzEHsJ0N21edVgiAYdrns81x6a5ISk4K9S9W21KN6ZU_mYWXCFHkkGPPNj7HBc/s400/DSC02259.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pickniki, Kvatia behind my bag</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-27169665704488908192012-10-18T10:38:00.000-07:002012-10-18T10:38:05.648-07:00Giorgi Had a Squeeze Box<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hey all, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1gmLTphhbbWhTnloWGlqKK_wvx-wKsnMVkSZmH_gmX1OKMAVOk1M7Lz0xnCqchh6Hrzsjt-UUfQr4kjWrPSX8fjPQIZuFBLtnxrfJv2wrLMVFiRbnp93uOxbtNxfxDiMOemJCMK20SNQL/s1600/DSC01859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1gmLTphhbbWhTnloWGlqKK_wvx-wKsnMVkSZmH_gmX1OKMAVOk1M7Lz0xnCqchh6Hrzsjt-UUfQr4kjWrPSX8fjPQIZuFBLtnxrfJv2wrLMVFiRbnp93uOxbtNxfxDiMOemJCMK20SNQL/s400/DSC01859.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: start;">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: start;">
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. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-2VRdFEGwm-oYJy8QgnbRbvo55EkoZue-6KOeEa7VX4QoJMYvOYHfeYrEKc_FBJdRprmVQjQjH6Pz5ZzvTo76BO0d7NUjEl3csDRSO4EpnDrGboZ4JAXfYHs8mufprVlqcGPy2igmu5y/s1600/whaat3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-2VRdFEGwm-oYJy8QgnbRbvo55EkoZue-6KOeEa7VX4QoJMYvOYHfeYrEKc_FBJdRprmVQjQjH6Pz5ZzvTo76BO0d7NUjEl3csDRSO4EpnDrGboZ4JAXfYHs8mufprVlqcGPy2igmu5y/s400/whaat3.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somehow makes me look cooler?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dTzNqFFLd5TuFFw0EGzYMt5c7TiRQkzBbOck5hvVvsXT5T7nunKPCzQUpTFDwmo0F9JxkyLJnm4T_DOkuqLz9H05-cQPER3wG7wPLYziaVI_Eef16QSiiU8lBGN6ej-Hdngx_2mUGSvG/s1600/whaaat2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dTzNqFFLd5TuFFw0EGzYMt5c7TiRQkzBbOck5hvVvsXT5T7nunKPCzQUpTFDwmo0F9JxkyLJnm4T_DOkuqLz9H05-cQPER3wG7wPLYziaVI_Eef16QSiiU8lBGN6ej-Hdngx_2mUGSvG/s400/whaaat2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hills are alive with the sound of vodka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpcayc16mJKcxwFkRYD2nRNgfFT5a_2SplkNYZMsIoya8wIuiCHBFpIx0J46xwQ9B5Bym9wswQltpw-nlPtf1aUsZzDx3zxFS1MCocH6qv02Qm_sFcpS1JktnUzFemDXH5bIt7wj7ENRL/s1600/whaaat1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpcayc16mJKcxwFkRYD2nRNgfFT5a_2SplkNYZMsIoya8wIuiCHBFpIx0J46xwQ9B5Bym9wswQltpw-nlPtf1aUsZzDx3zxFS1MCocH6qv02Qm_sFcpS1JktnUzFemDXH5bIt7wj7ENRL/s400/whaaat1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boogie down in the Caucasus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_HoaVGvd62VCQDQ18q_nNagagRyMfwZ4lkuoGomY5MacyNQ8CNyxVB_-67L02xRuYvUnpnQWMPvWO-1DhoZn49HUrv6CEGsbsQ2Fvxriet-aEuz6dSHllBl8OxzCQsJ_cG0gv3bw_QQdJ/s1600/whaat4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_HoaVGvd62VCQDQ18q_nNagagRyMfwZ4lkuoGomY5MacyNQ8CNyxVB_-67L02xRuYvUnpnQWMPvWO-1DhoZn49HUrv6CEGsbsQ2Fvxriet-aEuz6dSHllBl8OxzCQsJ_cG0gv3bw_QQdJ/s400/whaat4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The band Radiohead<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieEIL80Ijx6mGqiNnu-zP_hPgNT_0p2vzM4PKaWyHBTaHDBp8zy9Hf2SKNfgJLt1FoTNz-mNNPBtRqon8pKK9V4xFYk93J_zuuOo7XRNo5a5XzSYm324X38AdBA07MEJC11h0h85lqcz6L/s1600/whaaat6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieEIL80Ijx6mGqiNnu-zP_hPgNT_0p2vzM4PKaWyHBTaHDBp8zy9Hf2SKNfgJLt1FoTNz-mNNPBtRqon8pKK9V4xFYk93J_zuuOo7XRNo5a5XzSYm324X38AdBA07MEJC11h0h85lqcz6L/s400/whaaat6.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vancouver riots weren't all bad<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQn5Qvmv5Z57mCy5pG_ohucDqMJMq-madoYD-QDAjRjFRxL5En2vWsXFvkR0wmKTvPLx0mxGUVir9ls8ReghYhWX2FyXoNJ1yJOyPaTlQ6EaoxMBLRuhCYatcati1k4_83rpDQk7Qy-KuG/s1600/whaaat5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQn5Qvmv5Z57mCy5pG_ohucDqMJMq-madoYD-QDAjRjFRxL5En2vWsXFvkR0wmKTvPLx0mxGUVir9ls8ReghYhWX2FyXoNJ1yJOyPaTlQ6EaoxMBLRuhCYatcati1k4_83rpDQk7Qy-KuG/s400/whaaat5.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wouldn't be the first Georgian in Space</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kargad! </div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-15099429301897937892012-10-18T04:25:00.003-07:002012-10-18T04:25:42.652-07:00Brief Musings on Reality<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every day, on my unsteady walk to school, I walk past the
grave of my host-families father. He passed away two years ago from an illness
and the family has all but recovered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes
we are fortunate enough to have a real experience, a deep moment in which we
feel truly alive. These instances are often derived from intense feeling; a
burst of great pain or sorrow, an instant of deep anger or regret; a moment of
careless love or vulnerability. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel like
in our innocuous 21<sup>st</sup> century lives, we don’t leave ourselves enough
time for raw emotion. We are just too busy with our work, our families, our
relationships, our hobbies, our telephones and our televisions and our
telenovellas. We love <i>the idea</i> of a
real moment, we can recognize them, yet we seldom experience them for
ourselves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m a firm
believer in few subjects, yet I enjoy a little semiotics now and then. I am
also the first to admit that I seldom feel real. I have been in a few
situations in life: break-ups, fist fights, deaths etc, where I had absolutely
no idea how to behave. These occasions give you the opportunity to stop being a
walking billboard, finally find your spine or your soul (or your balls) and start
acting like a human being. What did I do in these moments? I recognized the
familiar pattern (domain) around me, the signifiers and the signified, and I
acted like the protagonist of the last goddamned movie I had happened to watch.
What a tool. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would bet
that you, reading these words right now, have had a similar experience. Maybe
you didn’t act like Bogart in Casablanca (I certainly didn’t) but I’m sure you
felt awkward, I’m sure you couldn’t believe a lot of the words coming out of
your mouth, maybe you couldn’t even figure out what to do with your hands.
These moments suck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The solution? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Practice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do whatever
you need to do to get yourself back in the saddle: love again, go fight a
bully, jump out of an airplane or some other cliché-ridden activity. The more
awkward situations you put yourself in, the more opportunities you have to
fight your way out of them. These moments define us, the memories of which keep
us going when the clouds start to form, the legacy of which makes us all the
more human. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took a
chance, I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I am a part of some noble
undertaking, but it was a chance nonetheless. Instead of stepping off an
airplane at 10 thousand feet, I stepped off an airplane and into a developing
country. Sometimes I think about the former, at least it wouldn’t have taken me
4 months to hit the ground, but that’s a different story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I see
that gravestone in the morning, when I see my host-mother clutching the
portrait of her late husband, when I witness that fleeting moment of agony, I
feel confounded and I feel awkward, but at least I feel real. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently the mouse I saw this morning while
I was eating my breakfast khachapuri was a “family friend”. Oh yeah, those
special moments can come from laughter as well.</div>
znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-59959575756211541252012-10-14T12:09:00.000-07:002012-10-14T12:23:33.891-07:00The Little School That Could<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the past couple of months, Georgia has been many things
to me. Georgia has been fun, it has been exhilarating, scary at times,
unrelentingly interesting and unbelievably frustrating. Yet I am an ‘Inglisuri
mastsavlebeli’, an English teacher, and Georgia can be everything or it can be
nothing, but it must be productive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have an
obligation, both contractual and moral, to give the children of this country the
best education that I can give. I am not a teacher by profession; besides a 120
hour TEFL course, I have no formal training. What I do have is sixteen-years of
primary, secondary and post-secondary education that I fought tooth and nail
for from the Government of Canada. Does this qualify me for a plane ticket and
a salary? If only you knew what I was working with.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a
native English speaker and I have been moulded by the western educational system
into what is, almost unfortunately, a capitalist. Because of Stalin and
seventy-years of Soviet oppression, what I posses has become a precious
commodity to the Georgian Government. If you want to modernize, westernize, and
distance yourself from the legacy of Joe Steel, what better tactic than to
strike at your countries youth? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am here
so that the students can hear my voice, so that their little ears can be
exposed to the subtle pronunciations of our overly-complex language. I’m here
so that I can bring some of my own education into these schools and perhaps influence
some Georgian teachers to adopt western methodologies in the classroom. Also,
I’m here so that these wonderful people can see a real live foreigner up close
and in the flesh. </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLuy8awnmhH9f234i5DXVhUcTOAUAIKgOKjneU1fkdB2wJswds0OfsgQoSdGVq5Z-9mp_WS5CT5056MPGdkpepx7Z9UrLU4Cn3tg5Dd2lGPB3jCrZgqtHx6mlhJtiOjGBlXQsCqyc0yEmw/s1600/IMG_0346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLuy8awnmhH9f234i5DXVhUcTOAUAIKgOKjneU1fkdB2wJswds0OfsgQoSdGVq5Z-9mp_WS5CT5056MPGdkpepx7Z9UrLU4Cn3tg5Dd2lGPB3jCrZgqtHx6mlhJtiOjGBlXQsCqyc0yEmw/s400/IMG_0346.JPG" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For Queen and Country (consulate in Tbilisi)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My school, a small building with less than 100 students, is in a state of disrepair. I believe it was
constructed from the same trees that they cleared the land of before building
it. Each room has gaps in the walls, ceiling and floor. If you wish to look
outside, forego the window and look to the corners of the room, above your
head, or at your feet. The effort that they put into this building, if indeed
this is the best that they could do, is both noble and touching, yet it falls
well short of anything I’ve seen in Canada or indeed much of what I have seen
in the larger cities and towns of Georgia.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My school
has no heating besides the wood stove that the teachers use to heat their morning
coffee. Perhaps this is safer, for it also has no sprinklers, fire
extinguishers, or axes either. It is October and I am cold; I weigh 175 pounds
and I have trouble understanding what these little 80 pound kids are going
through right now. The snow starts to fall next month; could somebody send me a
parka? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The desks
and chairs are both miniscule and older than I am. The chalkboards are
tattered, scratched and hang limply from the walls. The maps on those same walls
don’t have enough countries on them, I don’t recognize the contents of the jars
of pickled creatures in the science room, and if another raindrop falls on me
while I’m teaching, I’m going to lose my well-crafted teacher’s demeanour.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My school
is dark and there are no light bulbs. I struggle to see the board that I am
writing on or the book that I am reading from. Sometimes I struggle to keep
myself from yawning. Yet even if there were lights, seldom is there electricity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqJsjkyfcrhaFsSw9R4dip5VQ02edWyU3_9cMGdK_VCnJx7FeY2Jo4Ckmz3PznALeIMrMcyDNH7_QxG1S_kaqTe_JuRbaJqLlYRXBKZ8Ogekc67YylmVRZ7HdJA-XRkJsnKpE7Y5BbCh_/s1600/DSC01864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqJsjkyfcrhaFsSw9R4dip5VQ02edWyU3_9cMGdK_VCnJx7FeY2Jo4Ckmz3PznALeIMrMcyDNH7_QxG1S_kaqTe_JuRbaJqLlYRXBKZ8Ogekc67YylmVRZ7HdJA-XRkJsnKpE7Y5BbCh_/s400/DSC01864.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My school, wonderfully free of cows that day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The teachers subscribe to the Soviet-era practice of dictation and memorization. Teachers will break the cardinal rule and interrupt the children midsentence to correct them, often incorrectly. It is not uncommon for a teacher to yell at a student for making a mistake, be it a minor spelling error or a mispronunciation. I have yet to witness any physical punishment (besides a little ear-dragging) but I have recently been told by a fellow TLG’er that a little girl in his school took a textbook to the face from a disgruntled physics teacher.<br />
There is a low level of professionalism. Teachers arrive
minutes before class and leave seconds after. There is no lesson planning and
there are no office hours. There are no extra-curricular activities, no
detention, and no tests. There are no grades, progress reports, or
opportunities to reward improvement. I said earlier that I owe it to both
myself and to the Government to give these children all that I can give, though
I’m not sure how many of my colleagues feel the same way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet here I
am.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know it
sounds an awful lot like I’m complaining, but it’s important that we, as westerners,
understand the reality of the countless children (those who are fortunate enough)
who go to school in developing countries. Though I would not be lying in saying
that sometimes this school makes me want to find a quiet little corner, clutch
my head, and rock gently back and forth until I fall asleep. However, those days are
becoming fewer and farther between. Some other TLG’ers have already packed it
in, folded their tent, and fled back to the West, but I have barely considered
it. The bad days are bad, but I have family and friends, both in country and
out, that help me through those. The good days are unbelievably good. </div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-DdY3yLOp2AfDTY3fA6-CkMQz2Yvpt0RlCQM6QVDDw94cSNmzYJwAn1Srrgipw3yESAhOxfjnq3PKKD-eY-FtrCd1kIyFDBUtu5e4j6ARCzObBig9ySqPYeINQ3dLlu4-_AL_pq6NZqE/s1600/DSC02085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-DdY3yLOp2AfDTY3fA6-CkMQz2Yvpt0RlCQM6QVDDw94cSNmzYJwAn1Srrgipw3yESAhOxfjnq3PKKD-eY-FtrCd1kIyFDBUtu5e4j6ARCzObBig9ySqPYeINQ3dLlu4-_AL_pq6NZqE/s400/DSC02085.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My little brother and sister on the first day of school</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never knew it was possible until it happened. Standing in
front of a class of eleven-year-olds, eager hands reaching skyward, shouts of
“teacher!” filling the air along with laughter from both the students and
myself. I jump and I slide and I dance and I sing and I chuckle and I scold but
I never yell. They badly want to impress me and the feeling is completely
mutual. We are successful together, we make mistakes together but most
importantly, we are here together and we have to keep trying our hardest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A chorus of
goodbyes signals my exit from the classroom, an even louder chorus of hellos
signals my entry into the hall. I walk the short distance to the teacher’s
room, I get handed a cup of Turkish coffee and they motion me to sit down but I
cannot. I’m too amped. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never
knew it was possible until it happened; I never knew that teaching could give
you a high.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over two
hundred people have looked at this page so far and with only 4 posts, I’m
pretty impressed with you guys. If anybody has any questions, comments, or
simply wants to point out some bad spelling, please reach out to me here, over
social media or email. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kargad!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zacho</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<br />znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-64570178507715215052012-10-09T08:34:00.000-07:002012-10-09T08:55:51.793-07:00It Must Have Been the ChaCha<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been two weeks since my last update and I sincerely
apologize to those who have been following along. I promised a thrilling
play-by-play of our Trap Zone adventure, but I feel I must explain what’s been
going on. I’ve been pretty busy with school, some personal business, and
sickness, both of a nefarious, self-inflicted nature and otherwise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I, like
many other men do, was enjoying a personal moment this morning. I was sitting
with my elbows resting on my knees, contemplating life and all of the subtle
and interesting turns it so often takes. Unfortunately, this moment took place
on the hillside on the way to school, the bottom of my months-salary-worth of slacks soaking up the morning rain and thus the morning mud. I picked myself up by the
straps of my teaching boots (the hikers that are required for my commute) and
continued on to spread the good word, quite literally in this case. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSJAuBLbMBzGfOspBLJx0wbBByxsLadu74ZzD-bMarnB-2EGQ5bfRutOWXO5f1ifCK4M5cfU6ZFVKwnVjOVKi1vcZs3PvKXvZzembgaq1VKdrpYVtV7x98pvF0KV1Ml-3-x902Kn0smDJ/s1600/DSC02138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSJAuBLbMBzGfOspBLJx0wbBByxsLadu74ZzD-bMarnB-2EGQ5bfRutOWXO5f1ifCK4M5cfU6ZFVKwnVjOVKi1vcZs3PvKXvZzembgaq1VKdrpYVtV7x98pvF0KV1Ml-3-x902Kn0smDJ/s400/DSC02138.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How I've felt the past couple weeks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you ever get the opportunity to travel to this wonderful country, I pray you will never inform anybody when your birthday is, be they a local or expat. When Wednesday the 26<sup>th</sup> rolled around, I had forgotten that twenty-three years previous my wonderful mother brought me into this world. I was quick to remember, as nearly every man, woman and child in my village tried their best to wish me a happy birthday...somebody had loose lips.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to my classes as on any other day, but somewhere in there a couple of the older students stopped me in the hallway and unceremoniously offered me a small plastic bag. Inside the bag was the single ugliest hat I had ever laid eyes on in my life. Their thoughtfulness made me want to cry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon after I was whisked away to the teacher’s room. I found all of the staff assembled, sipping Turkish coffee and chatting. I had made it half-way through my own coffee when I heard a few hushed voices practicing “happy birthday” in the hall. They set before me one of the largest birthday cakes I had ever seen, a knife that was equal to the task at hand, and a touching reminder of what hospitality really means. I had only known these people for a couple of weeks, but they went out of their way to make me feel special. It was a moment I won't soon forget.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9H0SliKjqLQ-MJYD0fA5iqsdkz11gC0srHmdA4QiQYI-k6z4mIF5bIRQO6CA6ZbxUmpKGnvDf9IfpzHapiU1evfGKG7hOuUgFShpFoIawRTdVSKQDYEagkmfnGjARo22BR8sJSHNgUWSa/s1600/DSC02107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9H0SliKjqLQ-MJYD0fA5iqsdkz11gC0srHmdA4QiQYI-k6z4mIF5bIRQO6CA6ZbxUmpKGnvDf9IfpzHapiU1evfGKG7hOuUgFShpFoIawRTdVSKQDYEagkmfnGjARo22BR8sJSHNgUWSa/s400/DSC02107.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The birthday boy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon after leaving school, I was grabbed. When Georgians grab you, you have little chance of escape, their nails dig into your forearm and they pull with a force that threatens to knock you off balance. On the end of this particular arm was another teacher, he led me to a meadow behind the school where fresh-cut pieces of timber were arranged around some tomatoes, pickles, flat-bread and a bottle of chacha. The Georgians will tell you that they invented wine over five-thousand years ago, yet so many of them prefer its ugly cousin. Chacha is moonshine, made from distilling the remnants of the grape harvest, and it has so often knocked me on my ass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chacha comes in many different forms; some of it (most of it) is bitter and tastes like gasoline, while other kinds can taste like brandy. I think it all depends on the type of bathtub they make it in. On this fateful afternoon, I was given chacha of a pleasing nature, it was smoother than the Russian vodka that permeates this land and it went down far too easily. There I sat, with a small group of teachers and farmers, chasing moonshine with pickles and trying not to fall off the ground.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3IVI0Bphr6uBzBJUBMYIqBgmkbt7QxIZNdRw_CM6JNKD0ET_phu99iFy6MLcDETh6u5L5bgI_PTasf2wjscbUTP741Vs49q723Q3KRgSlOWT1gcxMq_ZxfQ4-_RIzfh1XV_eM04_Jzwe/s1600/DSC02121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3IVI0Bphr6uBzBJUBMYIqBgmkbt7QxIZNdRw_CM6JNKD0ET_phu99iFy6MLcDETh6u5L5bgI_PTasf2wjscbUTP741Vs49q723Q3KRgSlOWT1gcxMq_ZxfQ4-_RIzfh1XV_eM04_Jzwe/s400/DSC02121.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Georgian birthday party</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They toasted to my health, to my parents health, to Georgia, to Canada, to friends, to women, and to young men like us. They also poured a shot of the chacha onto my stool and lit it on fire, mesmerising me with the snaking blue flame and the image of what it was doing to my liver.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two bottles gone, I begged them to let me leave. The pickles were doing nothing to soak up the clear, bubbling demon in my stomach. I was becoming pickled. Finally, they stood up and we stumbled back onto the dirt track that makes up main-street Kvatia. I was standing off to the side of the road, head bobbing back and forth like an agreeable horse, when a man came up to me. He smiled, shook my hand, and spoke a few words to me. I smiled back, showing all of my teeth, and stuttered out “bodishi, arvitse Kartuli” (excuse me, I don’t speak Georgian). He gave me a strange look and turned without another word.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few minutes later, I spotted a villager that knows a few words of English and I inquired as to whose hand it was that I had just shaken. He looked at me, smiled with all of his remaining teeth, and informed me that it was the minister of education, my boss.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJNItBewSo1SPC4Xqcb1DahdbjcoBJ0eilcDDtOq43LMShtkkb110zarKtBxRbLqQDwpA6BKG4RQtd53b2M_RJbikm5QjFQaeSwxdum_Z8AQ9OE2Q490WIfjmR49KjzLyONrFfJ1WQpNi/s1600/DSC01865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJNItBewSo1SPC4Xqcb1DahdbjcoBJ0eilcDDtOq43LMShtkkb110zarKtBxRbLqQDwpA6BKG4RQtd53b2M_RJbikm5QjFQaeSwxdum_Z8AQ9OE2Q490WIfjmR49KjzLyONrFfJ1WQpNi/s400/DSC01865.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Kvatia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="text-align: start;">The incredible hangover I experienced the next day turned into a sickness that threatened to derail my weekend plans. The reason that brought the minister to my town was the same one that took me out of it. I travelled to Batumi to celebrate my birthday with some friends; we had the following Monday off because of the first free elections that this country has ever witnessed. With our typical level of professionalism and all-around classiness, we brought in this new era of democracy with both the style and respect that it deserved. I only woke up face-down on a balcony once.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhpxdxHhPLhcNtDYcl6qRUPA1tRxWSzQaW47rMkxZQ1WPX5HeZ-kc0DH5yYY5JO00A-qy28D1cyoNZSN2OceRpmlyKUEnb3g1Th8SJSotMDWMryP1HEo7lMCsxZ0InLlsEemdX7B62xeO/s1600/DSC02128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhpxdxHhPLhcNtDYcl6qRUPA1tRxWSzQaW47rMkxZQ1WPX5HeZ-kc0DH5yYY5JO00A-qy28D1cyoNZSN2OceRpmlyKUEnb3g1Th8SJSotMDWMryP1HEo7lMCsxZ0InLlsEemdX7B62xeO/s400/DSC02128.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crew in Batumi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going
to put a lot more effort into this blog in the coming weeks. I’ve spent the
past two weekends in Batumi and so I’ve banished myself to my village for the
foreseeable future. I’m also going to try and prove to you that I am actually
doing good work here: it’s not all debauchery and difficult mornings. Again, I
apologize for the delay but check back for updates concerning school, village
life and some other adventures. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kargad!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-81893268028132880892012-09-24T09:00:00.001-07:002012-09-24T09:02:27.262-07:00Highway to the Danger Zone - Batumi 2012<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what have I been up to this past month?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve
certainly spent some time listening to John Butler and gazing skyward as the
evening slowly envelopes the green and purple mountains that shelter my home.
You should see these stars.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve also
partied a bit, participated in a few benders, and tried to shake the only other
British Columbian in my group of the mast of a pirate ship.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my
home was announced, standing in the lobby of our Tbilisi hotel, my last words
to the huddled mass of my colleagues was “Batumi 2012!” This was spoken as a
battle cry; I think it was the nerves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Batumi
turned out to be a refreshing disaster, a shame-filled exertion of pent-up
steam. I spent one week in this city; fellow TLGers drifted in and out but yet
a handful of us remained, steadfast in our desire to burn through our money and
our brain cells. Our hostel was our own little Hotel California; we could not
bring ourselves to leave. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Batumi is a mix of Puerto Vallarta, Nice on
the French Riviera, and what I image Pyongyang to look like. American hotels
make up the majority of the skyline; Soviet-era monstrosities make up the rest.
The air is fresh, the Black Sea pounds the rocky shore mercilessly, and the
thrills are abundant and cheap. This town was to host our crucible, our last
little hurrah before we retreated to our villages and awaited winter.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJD0I8vrUsRfCcRob4fGk5RShIBeuJlIviunQQolX59BSpFst7B0SzjvK8nhn18y1ZAjgQgsvYfw0M8ugt8aOkG282Bqgsk9INRHf4GKk0TuRD305N8Eoj6_tFwQMyJfFuLfk-81kDuUe/s1600/DSC01870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJD0I8vrUsRfCcRob4fGk5RShIBeuJlIviunQQolX59BSpFst7B0SzjvK8nhn18y1ZAjgQgsvYfw0M8ugt8aOkG282Bqgsk9INRHf4GKk0TuRD305N8Eoj6_tFwQMyJfFuLfk-81kDuUe/s400/DSC01870.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful day on the beach, Batumi in the distance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mornings were spent pulling ourselves off the jagged
mattresses of our hostel bunks. I even witnessed one chap brushing his teeth
with vodka...nobody had even egged him on. Afternoons were spent on beach.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Black
Sea leaves little along the shoreline besides flat, smooth rocks. The beach is
clean and the rocks you can either sit on or gleefully skip into the turquoise
ocean. Unless the sea is angry, and boy did it get angry. In the closest that I
had come to death in a matter of days, a few friends and I decided it would be
great fun to swim out into the ten-foot rollers and bob like ignorant seagulls.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We hollered
to one another, laughing foolishly as the waves would pick us up and merrily drop
us back down under the surface. I believe two friends even marvelled at the
power of the sea. This continued on for several minutes, but then we
collectively began to run out of breath. In this circumstance, usually the
wisest course of action is to make for shore. In this particular circumstance,
that action could only be completed by trudging through the danger zone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The danger
zone is a strip of water not 7 or 8 feet from the water’s edge. In this area,
the menacing waves curl, crash, and wipe out anything in their path. One by
one, we began to break for shore. As the farthest out (or the weakest swimmer),
I had an excellent view as my colleagues struggled, became submerged, and
finally made landfall. When it was my turn, I used up the last of my reserves
to power to shore like a seal escaping an orca. I made the mistake of pausing
in the danger zone; I couldn’t help it, the look on my friends faces made me
turn and peer over my shoulder. What was I honestly expecting to see? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBhXMhbQZhTvuFd4YH1qocd4NH1DQ41lSpGGjaSSHuCr3sFgiGiy9qoua88-A3okUFQK765QH-3NETXSXEF0EZs6FAl4DroNJSAoAvrMB_y8MOkiHbiNJiEtQ_XN7S9A_3QfN6aiLpNm9/s1600/DSC01948.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBhXMhbQZhTvuFd4YH1qocd4NH1DQ41lSpGGjaSSHuCr3sFgiGiy9qoua88-A3okUFQK765QH-3NETXSXEF0EZs6FAl4DroNJSAoAvrMB_y8MOkiHbiNJiEtQ_XN7S9A_3QfN6aiLpNm9/s400/DSC01948.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Opera House and Poseidon just freeballin'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bastard
of a wave, one of Mother Nature’s finest, was poised to obliterate me. I did
not even feel the crash of stones being whipped against my ankles as the tide
receded like the cocked arm of a prizefighter. I took a couple deep breaths and
thought of the Queen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now if you
ever get the chance to feel as if you’re a pair of soiled gym shorts being
tossed about your washing machine, I strongly suggest you don’t take it. The
wave picked me up, turned me on my head, tossed me down, and grated me along
the rocky bottom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the
worst of it was over, I ran to shore and collapsed amongst my fellow survivors.
The majority of us were bleeding from the impact of the rocks; a toe on my left
foot was both bloodied and broken. For several minutes, which seemed like
hours, nobody said a word. We each paid a Lari (.60 cents CAD) for a lawn
chair, passed around a beer, and thought about our lives. Great bonding
experience, this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtnwiFvBqw_abgZKiZzUOBZSngMXjOPCokMAvKGVuvnXBqmSPueSQ5809T7l6IESOjFrpsq9_HJs7aWhJgC_Rh4qciVp9-iZHXATZVDK31-QvOxvDDyAJqOagTxsbuYBVFPvsB_snQLnQs/s1600/DSC01955.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtnwiFvBqw_abgZKiZzUOBZSngMXjOPCokMAvKGVuvnXBqmSPueSQ5809T7l6IESOjFrpsq9_HJs7aWhJgC_Rh4qciVp9-iZHXATZVDK31-QvOxvDDyAJqOagTxsbuYBVFPvsB_snQLnQs/s400/DSC01955.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lights of Batumi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Nights were spent pre-gaming at the hostel, followed by a
trip down to the boardwalk. We would inevitably end up at the Seizure Club (as
we named it), a completely empty dance club on the beach with a beautiful
Russian DJ who would not take requests, it didn’t even matter how loud you
asked her. This place was awful. The Seizure Club derives its name from the
strobe-light positioned directly over top of the dance floor. The light was
never turned off; it made you appear to be a terrific dancer, but it did
nothing to hinder the inevitable spins.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfX9fV1aTewNpnpEu3A9c2UOu17Ja2ma75pI3R_UXURGFMZIyvIlr-rr58vU70bVa9hpR2Dlq-Mg2e_FltgxolcLHRpNwkZLQao5dAEOf6rV4iFtmUmpS6NTwZEmS3CT_ruDs5cFDfxkPC/s1600/DSC01914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfX9fV1aTewNpnpEu3A9c2UOu17Ja2ma75pI3R_UXURGFMZIyvIlr-rr58vU70bVa9hpR2Dlq-Mg2e_FltgxolcLHRpNwkZLQao5dAEOf6rV4iFtmUmpS6NTwZEmS3CT_ruDs5cFDfxkPC/s400/DSC01914.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you look closely, you can almost make out an idiot standing in front of a pirate ship</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One night,
a couple of buddies and I decided to hell with the Seizure Club, we were going
directly to the pirate-ship-shaped restaurant. The place was packed with
Georgian holiday-goers, drinking beer, eating off tables that struggled under
the weight of food, and dancing ridiculously to the live band. It probably took
about two minutes for me to fall in love with the place. It probably took about
three minutes for my new American friend to decide that we really should chase
our frequent libations with a spot of cow brain and a dash of chicken heart. We
struggled through the crunches and the wriggles in what was a truly horrifying
experience; at one point I even longed for the violent embrace of the Black Sea.
When some of our companions joined us, we fed them the remnants with childish
grins on our faces. Upon informing them of their fatal mistake, one of them
said “damn, that’s good. Is there any more?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Kc8aglCdcrKGZCMPWVM2c-o4uwGRNOqfekeUh8PNzVMZH4Nmhm22Qp8sOej5wDzUrQmrHhwsZQj1dlOFm1UlPWmFzrNDHvVfcRivLfMiveL3Y0UkoIH8E6RadQFUveg2OqQy3rzXHHMI/s1600/DSC01960.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Kc8aglCdcrKGZCMPWVM2c-o4uwGRNOqfekeUh8PNzVMZH4Nmhm22Qp8sOej5wDzUrQmrHhwsZQj1dlOFm1UlPWmFzrNDHvVfcRivLfMiveL3Y0UkoIH8E6RadQFUveg2OqQy3rzXHHMI/s400/DSC01960.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fried cow brain in garlic sauce</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At one point, we decided to retire to the poop deck. Under
the stars, we talked about religion, politics, socio-economics, and how high we
could make it up the mast of the ship without falling. The honour of 33 million
Canadians at stake, a Vancouverite and I each took position at the bottom of the
rope ladder that led up forty-feet to the heavens above. I made it about 15
feet before I came to the realization that this idea was worse than the brain.
The other canuck was undeterred and reached a point only a couple of feet from
the top. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now it may
have been the stress of being so far from home, a capitalist struggling with
the prospect of single-handedly fighting off the ghost of Joseph Stalin and
marching hand-in-hand with these wonderful people into the 21<sup>st</sup>
century. It may also have been the moonshine. I crashed to the wooden deck of
the ship, grasped my partner’s ladder with both hands, and began to shake it
with all of the strength I could muster. He made it back down safely to earth
despite my repeated questions regarding his masculinity. Never have I woken up
more ashamed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib5BGbmhIP6dI5ULvvuPao1DVK7Unaf4rNEvZeEgITt4vTzUIXKPMerbGcqmPRyzdrQoCdU8qU5kTdOxzzLT8bok2ZTU8LRujMVq2-jfJF7DQnb1dSxUIGeqNlnajlzVtnhoJ3oexaAMz8/s1600/DSC01964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib5BGbmhIP6dI5ULvvuPao1DVK7Unaf4rNEvZeEgITt4vTzUIXKPMerbGcqmPRyzdrQoCdU8qU5kTdOxzzLT8bok2ZTU8LRujMVq2-jfJF7DQnb1dSxUIGeqNlnajlzVtnhoJ3oexaAMz8/s400/DSC01964.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the face you make when you eat brain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We soon tired of the vicious cycle of Batumi life, and five
of us decided that some exploring was in order. With a bit of careful planning,
we boarded the shadiest bus line in the country, destination: Trabzon, Turkey.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next
post will be dedicated towards doing what Lonely Planet should have done a long
time ago: warn people to stay away from the home of hardware stores and
hookers, a place we eloquently refer to as the Trap Zone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I would also like to take this opportunity to
sincerely express that the opinions and experiences found in this blog are my
own and in no way reflect upon the nature or the values of TLG and the Georgian
Government. - </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBf7g6hDpi8iy_sM0s54qF3qmyTgjISUMs_R4deiX3Z1lYXvYNSZY_g0-4n8dklqcDK-GN9dx8M2lVec95l3ykWb8nhNi6f3Ii1Cnd1xWvfCbjtcePXgLM_EUK7QdJvsS7sUhPzMbpgbk/s1600/DSC01979.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBf7g6hDpi8iy_sM0s54qF3qmyTgjISUMs_R4deiX3Z1lYXvYNSZY_g0-4n8dklqcDK-GN9dx8M2lVec95l3ykWb8nhNi6f3Ii1Cnd1xWvfCbjtcePXgLM_EUK7QdJvsS7sUhPzMbpgbk/s400/DSC01979.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Canadian far from home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<br />znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3059221395004739806.post-75072040613783780082012-09-16T03:42:00.001-07:002012-09-18T09:53:54.397-07:00They Call Me Zacho<div class="MsoNormal">
They call me Zacho, well, at least half of the time they do.
They switch between Zacho, Zakh, Za-char-i, and Inglusuri (English speaker). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been
in the Republic of Georgia for just over one month, though I am starting to
feel as if it has been years. The half-truth is that before this point, I have
yet to feel comfortable enough in my surroundings to start this blog. I enjoy
being in Georgia, yet I am no closer to understanding this place any more than
I was when I first stepped off the plane in Tbilisi. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other
side of the coin, the other half of the truth, is that though I initially faltered,
this blog writes itself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In one
month, I’ve climbed mountains, stood in thousand-year-old monasteries, drank
moonshine, came close to death, brought others around me close to death, been
paraded about a mountain hamlet on the back of a horse, potato farmed, hayed,
smuggled thousands of cigarettes into Turkey, inadvertently stumbled into (and
ran out of) a whorehouse, and ate a cows brain. These are just a few of many other enjoyable
experiences. I have three months remaining on my contract, with an option for
another four, so what the hell is in store for me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-3HZxbCDy-OQO4hl1aettZPnrH5G6d76Mc0_pvlC68Isvkgt2O76AadFgCrHetIiw1rDJ5klpAMMRuTQZT58pLd4Eic76CUhR5-PDTcl02WdBp6zTm86RrfiwYmbUGUFYvrkapcVeOXG/s1600/DSC01794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-3HZxbCDy-OQO4hl1aettZPnrH5G6d76Mc0_pvlC68Isvkgt2O76AadFgCrHetIiw1rDJ5klpAMMRuTQZT58pLd4Eic76CUhR5-PDTcl02WdBp6zTm86RrfiwYmbUGUFYvrkapcVeOXG/s400/DSC01794.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My home in Kvatia, Adjara Region, Republic of Georgia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll explain the booze, cigarettes and prostitutes in a later
post, however, I’ll begin with what it is that I am doing here and why I'm in the Republic of Georgia. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Georgia
first became a unified kingdom in the 9<sup>th</sup> century, but there is
evidence that <i>Homo erectus</i>, a
precursor to our species, had been living here over a million years ago. So,
to a person who comes from a country that was first unified 145 years ago, with
a native population that has lived there for thousands of years, this place
seems damned ancient indeed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Georgia
must hold the record for the most invaded country in history; by my personal
count (not necessarily accurate), Georgia has been invaded by around fourteen
different countries, kingdoms and empires, including by Alexander the Great, Pompey,
and Ogedei Khan (son of Genghis). Each invading force took a couple of cracks at
it, including those pesky Mongols, who attacked Georgia eight different times
in one seventeen-year span. The history of Sakartvelo (Georgia) is one of
blood, steel and resistance; these people feel immense pride at still being
here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSFAdGuSWcZ1eJwF6iTWG0Td7JhGeIiFUupv4aMIQ92DlL0HnyxiNe91Lwpo6UrMhZgbseJ7YXzwdh04WTXpJhYBBmPDT-XSfnjGHGdC48Zcj-F_OhDrI9WLutrKE8gIQJIr6qt1DzfpI/s1600/DSC01792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSFAdGuSWcZ1eJwF6iTWG0Td7JhGeIiFUupv4aMIQ92DlL0HnyxiNe91Lwpo6UrMhZgbseJ7YXzwdh04WTXpJhYBBmPDT-XSfnjGHGdC48Zcj-F_OhDrI9WLutrKE8gIQJIr6qt1DzfpI/s400/DSC01792.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the window of my room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Georgia sits at the crossroads of Europe and Asia (hence all
the invasions), and this is why the Russians (and the Soviets) held on to it, off
and on, for close to two-hundred years. The Soviets were many things, yet great
educators they were not and the last seventy-years were quite hard on Georgia’s
school system. When the Soviet Union collapsed in the early 90’s, Georgia went
through a decade of violence, repression, and civil war. Then, a thirty-six-year-old lawyer named Mikheil Saakashvili was propelled into the presidency by
the non-violent Rose Revolution and Georgia started to westernize.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of
this modernization was focused on Georgia’s educational system. When
Saakashvili finally got off of his ass and delivered his promised educational reforms
in 2010, Teach and Learn with Georgia (TLG) was created. TLG is designed to
help schools shake off the shackles of the Soviet Union by bringing in westerners;
it is hoped that these foreigners will teach both the students and their
Georgian colleagues how to speak, read, and learn in English. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am one of
the lucky westerners that has been invited into this country and it is an
immense honor to be a part of the rebirth of this ancient civilization. My
school is in Kvatia, Adjara Region. Adjara alone also has an interesting story
to tell an amateur historian. My family tells me that the Turk’s held onto this
area for hundreds of years and the valley in which I live, which leads directly
to the Turkish border, is filled with Turkish speaking, Islam practicing people
who have dark hair and dark eyes. These are truly lovely people.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicly_4p5rp6mhTuojjxN0sE5RU_b8LWvpNrjs7USznRxBZqdAjpJg5nzvQab3OtXM-vZjLu1TGq0DzkDMjnPoNpdwnYuFrQN7uSkXN1JJmJg-Mk_BFetp2Fp8YqT97IRIVsiS70VH8GaY0/s1600/DSC02077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicly_4p5rp6mhTuojjxN0sE5RU_b8LWvpNrjs7USznRxBZqdAjpJg5nzvQab3OtXM-vZjLu1TGq0DzkDMjnPoNpdwnYuFrQN7uSkXN1JJmJg-Mk_BFetp2Fp8YqT97IRIVsiS70VH8GaY0/s400/DSC02077.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My toilet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some would struggle to call Kvatia a village; it is more a
collection of houses that straddle the mountains on either side of a slow-trickling
river. We have two shacks that sell cigarettes and chocolate along the dirt
road that is my lifeline to a much different way of life. I believe there to be
more cows than people here. Yet, despite the lack of infrastructure and the charming
amusements that we in the West value so much, there is a school and thus, this
is home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have two
options of reaching said school from my three-storey, wood and brick house. I
can either take small, sure-footed steps down the steep gravel path that is inconveniently
lined with cow excrement or, I can power-slide by shifting the weight from my
toes to my heels. My morning commute often requires both. Allah save me when
the snow starts to fall.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am living
with a small family, two children ages thirteen and fifteen, and their widowed
mother. The girl, who is the younger of the two, is shy, sweet, and often full
of laughter. The boy has had to grow up quickly to meet the responsibilities of
living in the mountains, yet he also loves to laugh and crack jokes. The mother
is an absolute joy, she can go from yelling (as most Georgians do) to laughing
in a split-second. The only words she ever has for me is “modi!” (come) and “chame!”
(eat).</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3IDYPa4y5IO7rjOJOTYSWNWFanR2HuUtw2OPT2LxWOUwI10-zGMFYUagJ57QbZS8_BIVlBFBRra39Ojv6Ppxr5VFg766SKb2AKG7z9YRT5jkiBFnZEOQggrmXrp_VSq2y3l5mT7mHUf3/s1600/DSC01849.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3IDYPa4y5IO7rjOJOTYSWNWFanR2HuUtw2OPT2LxWOUwI10-zGMFYUagJ57QbZS8_BIVlBFBRra39Ojv6Ppxr5VFg766SKb2AKG7z9YRT5jkiBFnZEOQggrmXrp_VSq2y3l5mT7mHUf3/s400/DSC01849.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just me farming like a boss</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never met people like this before. I have known them
for a little over two weeks, yet they are fiercely invested in my well-being. I
cannot sit on concrete or I will die. It doesn’t matter if it is 30 degrees
outside, if I don’t put on socks I will die. If I attempt to wash dishes, you
guessed it, I will die. I am treated like something between royalty and a
deity, and all this from people who have so little to give in the first place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I
will stay, in this house amongst the mountains until Christmas time. I will eat
boiled cheese and bread, farm potatoes and pumpkins, and try to make a little
difference in this world. It’s a foolish cliché, yet if I can inspire one kid
to achieve a higher level of education, my time, my sweat, and possibly my
health, will be well spent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Future
posts will be geared towards filling you all in on the acts of debauchery my
colleagues and I have committed in the past month, and my first couple days in
the classroom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nachvamdis
(goodbye!)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 90.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Zacho</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />znorrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17324020367693523641noreply@blogger.com1