As you may or may not know (I’m guessing that most of you know…) my niece is due any minute now. Last time I heard she was weighing in at a cool 250 lbs and had so much hair they thought she was a child of a Yeti—just kidding. Seriously, though, last time I heard she was weighing in at around 8 lbs (that is 3.628739 kg for you metric people), and she is expected by Thursday August 25, 2005. This is the first time that my parents will have a grandchild, and also the first time that my siblings and I will have a niece/nephew, so we are all VERY excited. Anyway, apparently the people of ROG are also excited as well.
As soon as I found out on Saturday that peanut (the nickname for my niece—her real name is Emmy) would be born by August 25 I decided to inform my host family of this great news. You would have thought that when I told them that I was going to be an uncle by Thursday that they had instead heard me say that I had just won the lottery, cured cancer, eliminated poverty and world hunger, and solved mystery of the difference between why people tend to prefer yellow or orange M&M’s to brown ones (one of life’s great mysteries, you know). Confetti, champagne, fireworks, hugs and kisses were shared at the news that I was going to be an uncle. Ok, so actually, only champagne and hugs and kisses were shared, but you would have thought something even more exciting were announced if you didn't know any better! Of course this is ROG so as soon as something exciting is announced it is customary (I think) to have a supra. Before I explain the supra I will have to formally introduce my new host family.
My new host mom—age 51—is a doctor at the local hospital, and she is from the famous mountain town of Kazbegi. Kazbegi I think is probably one of the most famous towns in ROG that is always featured in postcards, books, websites, etc. I think the picture that is always seen is the one with the church on top of the hill and Mt. Kazbegi looming in the background. It is literally right next to one of the ski resorts in ROG (somewhere I’ll definitely be going there this winter—holla!), and they are famous for the Georgian dish called Khinkali. Khinkali is like dim sum or a pot sticker except it is steamed. It has a lot of meat inside, although sometimes it will have mushrooms or mashed potatoes, and when it has meat inside it has all these juices so when you bite into it you get this juicy goodness—delicious. I’ll post pictures near the bottom of this entry of what they look like. Ok, moving on. My host dad—age 56—is a winemaker and I think he is from the region of Guria (one region north of Adjara). This is what I gathered in their explanation of how they met. They met during Soviet times while vacationing in Yugoslavia over a two-month period, and they instantly fell in love and kept in touch after their vacation and eventually married—cool. They have four children who range in age from 13 to 22. Tamta—the eldest girl—is my age and she goes to university in Tbilisi at the Social Science University. She is currently working on her masters degree, but she might take a year off and come back to Batumi because she says she is exhausted of studying. Tornike—age 20—goes to university in Tbilisi, but the way the university system works here he only has to go to school one month out of the year there and has an apprenticeship here in Batumi for the rest of the year. He is training to become a winemaker like his father, and is apparently adamant about drinking wine but not getting drunk off of wine. Tsotne—age 15—is, well, a high school kid who is very nice. Ok, moving on. Rati—age 13—is the youngest and apparently is into karate. He has been in Kazbegi so I haven’t met him yet, but, apparently, he loves all things asian so I’m hoping to be a hit—hooray!
Ok, moving on to the supra. So hearing the news that I was going to be an uncle they decided to throw a supra in honor of Emmy and myself. During the day since I didn't have any work at the office (office is closed until September 1) John and I decided to go to the beach to lay out, chill out, and read. The water was crystal clear because there was two days of nonstop torrential down pour (it was like the monsoon season in asia), and my theory is that it cleaned up the coast. Blue skies, blue water, black pebbly beaches, it was a perfect day already. I always thought going to the beach was kind of funny. All these people laying out getting tan always gave me kind of a weird image. With hundreds of bodies sprawled motionless on the beach, it always looked like there was a mass suicide—kind of like a Heavens Gate. So when I was with John I joked and told him to “drink the kool-aid, man,” but I don't think he got it because he just kind of looked at me weird. Moments like this are now happening often where I’ll just say something randomly because I’ll think of something funny in my head, and for some reason I will expect someone to be following my joke all along. I think this has been occurring because in Khasuri I was always surrounded by people who didn't speak any English, so I would start telling myself jokes which, quite frankly, I found hilarious. So keeping this mentally bizarre tradition alive, I have been telling myself little jokes here to keep myself amused, but I think this will have to stop soon because my host sister speaks English, my counterpart and director of my NGO speak English fluently, and my site mate John can, of course, speak fluently, and I don't want them to think I’m bizarre. Anyway, getting back to the beach.
Batumi is a resort town and during the months of July, August, and September it is a “happening” place. During the summer months, clubs, bars, cabana bars, and all sorts of businesses pop up on the beach, and this adds excitement and atmosphere to Batumi. Here are some pictures of the beach at Batumi:
A picture of the beach:
A picture of a club that is on the beach (the covered area is "VIP" haha):
One of the cafe/bars on the beach:
This is the promenade where I run everyday:
My host mom told me that she wanted “the other American” to come to the supra so I urged John—also now known as “the other American,” also known as Jo-nee—to come. Before we went back to my place I got to see John’s host family’s house, and I have to say that it is pretty nice despite some soviet engineering relics hanging around. For instance, when you go into the building you notice a gigantic pipeline running along the staircase that smells, literally, like dung. When I asked about this to John, he explained the reason why it smelled like dung was because it was actually the dung pipeline for the apartment building—brilliant! John’s host family owns the entire 9th and 10th floor of the building—the top two floors of the building—so you could say that he lives in the penthouse, so when John and I debated how to get there—stairs or elevator—we decided it was smarter to take the elevator. I think it was a smart choice because instead of climbing 10 flights of stairs with the dung pipeline running adjacent along it excreting the aromatic sweetness of dung, we would instead take the elevator that had no smell. Looking at the elevator I suspected (and this is just a wild guess) that it was probably inspected for the first and last time when it was installed into the building about 30-40 years ago. On the way up you could hear the motor starting to hum while we slowly ascended to the top. At one point the elevator scratched the side of the shaft, and I couldn't help but silently utter a cry for help and a girlish scream escaped my mouth thinking, “this is it, my luck is finally up.” Since there was no display showing what floor we were passing, I could only guess at where we were at every moment. 10 seconds elapsed—second floor maybe? 30 seconds elapsed—fifth floor maybe? After a minute of feeling like we were moving up I let out a sigh of relief as the elevator door opened. The inside of John’s house was impressive: clean, big, high ceilings, and, of course, he had the nice views since it was the 9th floor. As we climbed the steep steps to the 10th floor I noticed that I was either growing at a rapid pace or the ceiling was a getting lower. John cautioned that I should make sure to stoop down a little bit on the 10th floor, but as I walked up I decided not to stoop down because, as I soon realized, the ceiling was exactly 5 foot 6 inches—my height. Seeing John walk around the living room on the 10th floor hunched over I had a harsh realization that I was short, and that after the Peace Corps I could probably get a job as a midget clown in the circus.
After we left and got back to my house on the other side of town, John and I helped my host mom make khinkali, which turned out to be really cool. First you have this dough (didn't see how she made it so I’ll ask next time) and you roll it out kind of like a piecrust. After that you use a wooden cookie cutter to cut out perfect circles that are then flattened out individually into thinner, more pliable dough. After you have a billion of these circles—ok, not a billion, but maybe 139—you scoop a heap of meat in the center of each one and start folding them. I don't know how to really explain how they are folded, but here is my attempt at explaining it. Once you have folded almost all the edges (maybe not called edges because it’s circular?) you pinch the top, twist it until it comes off, and then press the middle down so it looks like a belly button—done and delicious. Once you have made about 139 of these (that is how many we made)—all roughly the size of your fist—you steam them and eat them while they are just hot enough to burn your fingertips. After dinner it’s customary to have third degree burns, numbness, and an unbearable amount of pain on your fingertips—just kidding. As a side note, when you have leftover khinkali (and you always do), it magically appears on the table the next day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner as fried khinkali.
Once we made all these we all sat down to start toasting and eating. The Georgian supra is a very interesting affair that usually lasts a couple of hours. Everyone sits down and fills their glasses with wine or liquor and there is a tamada who is responsible for making all the toasts and starting the dinner. Since John speaks fluent Russian most of the toasts were made in Russian so he could translate them to me, which was followed by me saying “gmadlobt (thank you),” and “garmajos (cheers!)!” Toasts were made to Emmy having a happy and successful life, to love, to youth, to family, to future husbands and wives, to America, Japan, and ROG, to me being the hottest uncle alive (seriously, it happened), and various other things. After 3 bottles of brandy, they brought out a huge cake that was garnished with bananas and peaches. Emmy’s first birthday cake when she isn’t even born yet! I figured it was American tradition to make a wish (even with the absence of a candle) so I made a wish for Emmy since she isn’t here yet. Here are some pictures from the Supra:
John and my host dad toast:
Emmy’s first Birthday cake:
This is probably my 4th supra, and although some of the toasts were repetitious and probably said without much thought and more out of tradition, I am new to this custom and it makes me really listen and consider what they are saying. They are toasting to family, to happiness, to love, and to all the things that are important in any culture. In any culture I think that these things are seen as important, and during all the toasting, eating, laughing, and drinking, I promised myself that when things get frustrating and I ask myself “why am I here when I have nothing in common with these people?,” I will think back and remember that there are things that we all find valuable and that is what I have in common with them and that is why I will stay. To love, because I love working here and the work I do; to family, because I’m working to hopefully make my family proud and integrate into a new one; to happiness, because I choose to believe that the best way to be happy is to make those around you happy. I am definitely in an interesting situation and an interesting culture. After the supra ended and I was helping clean up, I thanked my host mom for throwing Emmy and I a supra. She looked at me (probably perplexed at my broken Georgian), smiled, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and told me to go to bed. Trying to be a good host son, I did.
Happy Birthday Emmy!
HOLLA~!
