Epiphonous weekend

Every once in a while it’s good to have a bad experience to make a person think about the situation and challenges that they face. Maybe it’s a bad test grade, a fight with your parents, food poisoning from a nice restaurant, getting harassed by drunk people, or having a bad accident while working out, but after every bad situation I think that people always have some sort of epiphany. Most of the time it is a small revelation, but, from time-to-time, a person can have a life changing epiphany that may very well alter the course of their life. This past weekend was Halloween weekend, and since all of us savor the opportunity to hang out with each other while wearing costumes, a majority of volunteers descended on Gori to p-a-r-t-y. Yea-yuh.

Going to a Halloween party is always challenging because there is pressure to have the best costume. Two years ago I was a washing machine and my friend Rebecca was a dryer, and our costumes were so life-like that we weren’t able to get through the door without taking off and collapsing our costumes. Needless to say that our costumes were the best, and everyone else’s dimmed in comparison. This year, John, Emily and I wanted to be creative in our Halloween costumes, and we thought that the best way to go about it would be to make a costume with a Georgian theme. At first I thought that it would be fun to dress up as Stalin—he was from Gori after all—or a bundle of grapes (Georgia is known for their wine), but in the end John came up with the idea that we should be khinkali for Halloween. Khinkali, for those of you who don’t know, is a traditional Georgian dish that is a dumpling filled with pork, herbs, and garlic that vaguely resemble dim sum. This is a dish that my host mom makes all the time, and I think it is probably my favorite Georgian dish so far. Anyway, here is what our costumes looked like compared to the real thing. The resemblance is uncanny.

-The real thing:

-Us:


Getting back to the epiphany nonsense, though, is more important right now. I had a number of revelations and reality checks during this weekend, but none of them were really related to anything that happened at the Halloween party, so those pictures will be posted on the blog entry prior to this one (so if you only want to see pictures just scroll down. I know I write too much so I won't be offended - I swear).

Epiphany #1:

As Brian, (Girl) Chris, Emily, and I walked to the marshutka station in Batumi to catch a marshutka heading towards Gori at around 3pm, I came to the realization that I hate traveling in cramped spaces. It is in no way even remotely close to traveling in the states or any western country, and within the first minute of every trip this is made crystal clear. Every experience of traveling that I’ve had has ended with me being uncomfortable for at least 4 or more hours, and always at some point in the ride I find myself promising the Almighty that I’d give not one, but two cans of food at the next food drive if I survive the journey. Alongside other passengers who start praying to God or crossing their hearts while the marshutka speeds at 120 km/h while barely hugging Cliffside roads in the dark and monsoon like weather, I can’t say that I ever find comfort by the fact that native Georgians are also frightened.

This particular trip started with us climbing into the marshutka—soaking wet—and enduring a 6 hour marshutka ride with cold, wet feet while 3 smokers puffed up with all the windows closed. “Hey,” I whispered to Brian, “tell them to pull down the window when they smoke so I don’t die of lung cancer before I get to Gori.” Every action has a reaction, and this was no exception. As the driver rolled down his window the rain started to fly into my face with the force of pellets being shot at me, and that is the moment I found out what it would feel like to get shot in the face. Faced with the decision of inhaling smoke or being soaked with freezing rain, I opted for the former. Smoke once again filled the inside of the marshutka and I secretly hoped that I would get light headed and faint for the rest of the marshutka ride.

Sitting in the hazy atmosphere of the marshutka, though, I entertained thoughts of having a secondary project of acquiring individual ionic breeze air filters for everyone in ROG. I imagined every man, woman, and child with a miniature ionic breeze hanging from their neck, and the hazy atmosphere of the marshutka would, all of a sudden, be sucked up inside the filter of everyone’s ionic breeze and in an instant everything would be pine fresh. There would be no more musky body odors lingering in the air, cigarette smoke would not plague every piece of clothing I owned, and, by some inexplicable unexpected miracle, even the littered highways would be spotlessly clean.

After enduring nascar-like speeds, death-defying driving, and a closed smoky environment, we were dropped off on the highway exit with about 10 years shaved off of our lives. It was around 10pm when we were dropped off, and we started our 4 km trek into Stalin’s hometown through the drizzling, cold, and windy weather. After walking about a mile and showing lots of leg, we finally got the attention of a bus driver and were taken to our hotel where we met up with other volunteers.

Epiphany #2:

Arriving at the hotel, I was ready to take a hot shower and call it a night in a nice heated room. This, of course, makes logical sense because when a customer pays to stay at a hotel they expect to have electricity, water, and heated rooms, but somewhere between the supras and khachapuri logic is lost in ROG. Walking into the lobby of the hotel, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the marble columns and the tiled floors, and when Eve came to get me to show me to our room I was filled with hope because she was smiling—and if that isn’t a sign of good things to come, I don't know what is. As she unlocked the door to our room—my hands and feet still numb from the outside elements—I was faced with a lime green room that was not at all heated. If this was hotel life in ROG I wanted no part of it, and the shocker was that we were staying in the expensive room in the hotel. Most volunteers opted to stay in the cheaper part of the hotel because it was half as much ($5/night instead of $10/night), but whether it was out of masochistic tendencies or the desire to have a “spooky” night during the Halloween weekend, I can’t imagine why anyone would choose to stay in the cheaper section of the hotel.

The cheaper part of the hotel is not yet renovated, and for $5/night a guest can stay in a communal room (split between boys and girls) with no water, electricity or heating. Guests in these lovely rooms have the option of sleeping in beds or a mattress on the floor, and I imagine a fierce rock-paper-scissor fight ensues for the luxurious foam beds that the hotel provided. When I went to say hi to some PCV’s that were staying there, I observed that water was leaking in from the roof, making a small baby pool available to guests in the corner of the room to swim in. Before I came to ROG I never thought about the consequences of not having water, but let me assure you that it is more devastating than not having electricity. When a house has no water, you cannot flush the toilet, so needless to say with a toilet split between about 10 people the toilet becomes revolting, if not the things of nightmares and horror movies. Of course showers are out of the question, and brushing your teeth is a thing of the past, if not a myth.

For $10/night guests at the hotel will get a room that has running water from 9am-midnight, but if you want hot water you have to plug in the miniature water heater in your room and wait about 30 minutes. Electricity is, of course, expected for $10/night, but sporadic blackouts still manifest themselves through the night. I don't know if the hotel staff was doing this to add a spooky effect for Halloween, but I would have rather had uninterrupted electricity. Heating is not provided for either rooms—and neither are space heaters—but the good thing is that the staff kindly gives you one blanket for two people in the expensive rooms.

I was lucky that Eve was kind enough to bring her Peace Corps issued sleeping bag for me, because if she didn’t I would have froze in my sleep—my body suspended in time. As I lay inside the sleeping bag at night, keeping still as a corpse, I had an epiphany: there is something very wrong with the situation I was in. There was something wrong with the fact that I was paying extra to have electricity and water at a hotel, and was still not getting a heated room. There was something wrong with the fact that we only got one blanket for two people, and there was something wrong with the fact that I was absolutely ecstatic to have running water. When I woke up in the morning to go to the bathroom, steam rose and I couldn’t help but imagine that it would have been the same to sleep under a bridge or in a cardboard box. After washing my hands in the ice-cold water (hooray for running water), I sprinted back to the warmth of the sleeping bag and I silently cursed the staff for not providing space heaters.

-Me mummified in Eve’s Peace Corps issued sleeping bag:


Epiphany #3:

The Halloween party went off without a hitch, and I think everyone had loads of fun. The party unexpectedly started at around 5pm, and before Eve and I knew it the party had shifted from the upstairs lobby to our room. It was great to see everyone again and catch up on the latest activities, and even though our room was slowly getting trashed with every person that came, I didn’t mind.

The next day lots of volunteers left early in the morning by marshutka, but with the terrifying experience of the marshutka-ride still fresh in my mind, I opted to take the night train with John later that night. I spent the day with Eve, Brian, Laura, and John playing scrabble and wasting time talking about everything and nothing, and before we knew it, it was time to go buy our train tickets and wait for the train.

After getting our ticket, we decided to wait inside the lobby of the train station to try and stay warm, but we were immediately swarmed by drunk men who were eager to talk to us and get a kick out of making us uncomfortable. After making about a dozen escapes from awkward situations, we were finally left alone for about 10 minutes when John showed up carrying about 50 lbs of apples, muraba (preserved fruit), and wine that his PST host family had given him to take back to Batumi. I was relieved to see John because he speaks Russian and would be able to articulately tell the drunk men to leave us alone. At one point a very, very drunk man in a baggy suit and a white trench coach approached us and started slurring his Georgian words together in attempt at conversation. “Me arvitsi kartuli (I don't know Georgian),” Brian told the man, but when he kept persisting, John finally spoke in Russian to entertain him just enough so he would leave us alone. Out of the blue this man—both hands stretched out reaching for my face—tried to kiss me, and when I swiftly backed away unable to hide the disgust I from my face, he got very, very upset. “Me…shen…miqvars (I…you…LOVE)!,” he’d yell over and over again while making kissing noises, and when we finally made our escape we were, again, approached by other inebriated men at the train station. This vicious cycle continued until our train came, and when we finally got on I felt nothing but relief.

The relief lasted only about 30 minutes, and as we were showed to our cabin we discovered that we would be sharing it with two very drunk sailors. I immediately escaped to the top bunk and feigned sleep, but John—who was on the bottom bunk—was woken up by the men and forced to converse with them. With the door to our compartment closed, these men continued to gloat about ROG, while toasting and smoking until 4am, and I tried to hide under my covers thinking that it would be a filter for the lingering smoke that engulfed me in the stratosphere of the compartment. “Who do these people think they are keeping me up?” I thought with rage while trying desperately to breathe. As I silently sat there listening to them toast to ROG, to the Georgian soul, to Christians, to God, and to family, I couldn't help silently toast by myself to muzzles, to nonsmokers, to sobriety, and to shutting up.

I also think that John was getting so angry and fed up that he was going from this:

...to this:


Finally at around 4:30am the lights were turned off, but the talking persisted for about another 30 minutes. Their deep, bass voices carried over the rhythmic sound of the train running along the tracks, and at exactly 5:02am I gave up sleeping until I got home. As I lay waiting to arrive in Batumi, I had thoughts of quitting and going home. “Why should I stay if people are this rude?” I thought, and I entertained thoughts of seeing my dog, family, and friends.

After arriving and getting into a taxi to Batumi, I stared out at the Black Sea thinking about why I was here. As the sun started to rise from the east casting a pale blue hue over Batumi, I had an epiphany: I am too stubborn to let frustrating situations drive me back home. I know that I am not that weak to just quit because something upsets me, and I gave up a job and a completely different life to come here. I reaffirmed my commitment—or renewed my stubbornness—that nothing will send me back home until my time here is over, and after arriving and taking a hot shower with plenty of water pressure, I went to bed replenished with new superhero strength.

Halloween Pictures

Enough of these epiphanies, time for pictures:

-Me and Laura (as a witch):

-(Girl) Chris (as a cheesehead), Eve (as herself), and myself:

-Paul (as a mannish girl), Erin (as red riding hood), and me:

-Group picture:

-Erin, Emily (as a slutty Mummy), Mike (as Woody Allen), and me:

-Laura and I copping a feel:

-Craziness before a picture:

-Another group picture:

-Paul, (Boy) Chris (as Van our country director), Matt (as Romeo), and me:

Consumerismsick

“I don’t have many magazines left to give you,” our PTO Mary cheerfully informed John and I during her site visit in Batumi, “but I do have one copy of Food and Wine left.” Like a skinny, fit, young and blonde Santa Claus from the Peace Corps office, Mary came to Batumi bearing gifts of brownies, free dinner, smoke detectors, mail, and an American magazine. As she was handing us brownies and asking if we’d like more, I thought I saw a halo floating above her head, but I think it was just the trance I was in from nearly choking on a brownie because I ate it too fast.

Starving for any new American literature, I eagerly told her that I’d be more than happy to take it. Food and Wine is a magazine that I’d never bothered to pick up and read back in the states, mainly because it reminded me of the numerous magazines that my mom had stashed in bookshelves and bathrooms; on coffee and bedside tables; and every conceivable surface inside the house. Southern Living, Home and Gardening, Martha Stewart Living, these domestic bibles were associated in my mind with a Norman Rockwellian marketing scheme. When I was younger I would casually pick one up while eating a snack in the kitchen, and I’d see the manicured gardens, spotless kitchens, and dogs sitting obediently at the foot of their owners. There was something disturbing with these pictures and the lifestyles they portrayed, and maybe it was because—secretly inside—I started to have a desire to own 1000+ thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, Persian rugs, and crystal wineglasses that I eventually warmed up to them. Much like the former frivolous CEO of Tyco, a $6000 shower curtain not only seemed reasonable, but also attainable and practical. They were selling fine living, and even from a young age I was enthusiastically eating it up.

The Food and Wine magazine that I got is from June 2005—right at the peak of barbeque season—and plastered on the cover was a delicious-looking grilled leg of lamb with feta and herb salsa. “Why is my PTO trying to torture me?” I thought before delving into the magazine. As I hungrily flipped through the recipes and the pictures of five-star restaurants—interiors dimly lit and tables covered with crisp, white linen—I couldn’t help but notice the huge contrast from American restaurants to Georgian restaurants. Georgian restaurants can be good, and even though they lack one of my favorite foods—sushi—on the menu, I still give some of the restaurants two thumbs up. Sure most restaurants lack service, choice, and, at times, food, but I still think that they can still be quite enjoyable. Sometimes when I’m in restaurants I feel like it would be quicker to ask what they have instead of being told what they don’t have. These things might be due to the lack of a restaurant culture, though. In my training site there was not one restaurant in town—only a café—so if you wanted to eat at a restaurant you had to travel about 3–5 km out of town. In bigger cities and towns there tends to be plenty of restaurants that market themselves as different kinds of restaurants, but it is never what you expect it to be. Pizza will come topped with mounds of mayonnaise; hamburger meat will taste conspicuously different; spaghetti bolognese will come out tasting oddly like canned Chef Poyordi; and chocolate mousse cake will be, at times, dry and crusty.

I had an interesting experience at a restaurant in Tbilisi. Because Tbilisi is the capitol and largest city in ROG, they have not one, but two McDonalds and also offers a host of other types of restaurants. Chinese, Mexican, Japanese, Italian, American, Thai; it seems to be as international as any large city—except it’s not. I sometimes feel like every individual restaurant in Tbilisi always has something missing. Sometimes I cant put my finger on what that something is, but most of the time I think it is service and food.

One night while I was visiting Tbilisi, I went to a really nice restaurant with Lana, Nino, Eve, and Matt. Because the restaurant was housed in a hotel in old-town, we decided to eat on the top level of the restaurant, which provided us with a great view of the city. From where we sat you could see the outline of Tbilisi’s castle and the numerous Georgian orthodox churches that dotted the cityscape. When we looked at the menu it was also very promising. “Wow, the menu has more than two pages!” I enthusiastically shouted, and as the waiter came to our table I was, quite literally, shaking with excitement. “I’d like the plate of cold cuts,” I told Lana who’d translate it to Georgian for the waiter, “to, you know, go with the wine.” When he mumbled something instead of writing down my order I knew something was wrong. “He says the cold cuts are out of season,” Lana explained to me. I wondered for a minute if meat could ever be out of season, because, in my mind, I thought that pigs, cows, and any living creature that I would happily devour would be available any season. “Do pigs only grow out of the soil in the spring?” I thought to myself, “or are they only ripe for eating in the fall?” Whatever the reason, I would not be getting cold cuts that night.

With my first choice shot down, I sat looking at the menu for a good thirty-seconds before the waiter announced that he “didn’t have time to wait for us to order” and that he would be back later at his convenience. “Jigga RAAA (whaat)~?” is what I really wanted to say, but I held my astonishment in after seeing that Lana and Nino were likewise shocked at the waiter’s behavior. After finishing our delicious meal and talking for a while, I was ready for the most important part of any meal—coffee and dessert. Finally convincing Eve to get the tiramisu with me, Lana once again ordered for us. “I’m sorry,” our waiter informed us, “the tiramisu is out.” I couldn’t help but think that this guy was out to ruin my night, and wondered if I had met him previously before where I might have unintentionally done something bad to him. Having a hard time remembering whether or not I’d seen him in my not so distant past, I resigned to get a bowl of the fruit that the table next to us had. When he told us that he could get us some fruit, but that some fruits were out, I knew that I must have done something by accident to this guy before. Despite the service deficiencies I had a great night out, and I later learned that most, if not all, restaurants in ROG have service that is equal to or lower than what I experienced that night and that it was nothing personal.

In Batumi, John and I try and go to different restaurants as often as possible. On one of our lunch breaks we sat sitting in a smoky khinkali house, and as I sipped on my water John quizzically asked me, “I wonder if there will be a time when we miss Georgian food.” Thinking about it for a second, I realized that it was a good question because, like how we miss American food now, I had never thought about whether or not I would come to miss Georgian food. “I mean,” John reiterated, “will we ever wake up one day and think ‘boy, I’d really like some khinkali today’?” He had a good point because, even though Georgian food is good, the same dishes tend to magically reappear every week as if it’s set on a timer. Generally, restaurants lack variety, and so the main Georgian dishes are always served at every restaurant. I suppose it’s like how in America, hamburgers, chicken fingers, and spaghetti are always on children’s menus, but in Georgia there is no children’s menu and so it appears on every regular menu.

Khachapuri? Got it.
Mtsvadi? Yup.
Cucumber and tomato salad? Check.
Lobiani? You betcha.
Eggplant with walnut sauce? Uh huh.
Khinkali? Word.

By my second week in ROG I had eaten so much lobiani (bread stuffed with red beans) that I thought I would explode from the resulting gas it produced. Thinking about John’s question, though, I thought about how if you eat something so much and so often, you begin to miss it once you can’t have it whether or not you liked it to begin with. It’s like how I miss Japanese food right now—even the dishes that I don't like—just because it’s out of my reach.

So as I sit here writing this entry, I’m still staring at the Food and Wine magazine and thinking about how, if I were in America, I could be eating at some of my favorite restaurants where the waiter’s wages are dependent on their service. Reading these recipes are also taunting to my mental health. Arugula, pine nuts, thyme, crème fraiche, hanger steaks, sesame oil, sherry vinegar, jumbo shrimp, I am literally drooling as I type this list of unattainable items. But even though I miss these things, I have come to the resolve that while I’m here I will no longer seek unattainable items, but will instead focus on delicious and great things I can get here. Snickers, Twix, seasonal fruits and vegetables, and freshly baked bread are all readily available, and, I guess, as a food enthusiast I have no choice but to try and be creative with the given items in the kitchen. Sure I won’t be able to eat bluenose bass with fennel and lobster salad, or sip on the 2003 Chateau Lamothe de Haux (a light wine that Food and Wine magazine says is a “classic blend of Sauvignon Blanc, Semillon and Muscadelle”), and even though I’ll miss out on life’s many luxuries while I’m here, that is the what I decided when I joined Peace Corps. Do I miss these things sometimes? Yes. Would I ever go back just for those things? No. I guess you could say that instead of being homesick right now, I’m just consumerismsick.

Soccer Psychos

When the weather permits, I like to run along the promenade all the way to the south side of town where the municipal government built brand new soccer fields, tennis, and basketball courts. I usually stop at the Turkish college to stretch to take in the view of the sea before I head back home, and sometimes I look away from the sea and see kids playing soccer, basketball, and, from time to time, tennis. It looks like it’s an organized league because there are spectators there, and even from the promenade I can hear the cheers of family and friends who have come to watch.

Seeing kids playing soccer reminds me of playing soccer in America. I remember the fun of being on a team with all my friends, not really caring if we won or lost, but just happy to be able to goof around at practice. At games everything was tense and the mood was heavy, and although the competition was fun, I didn't like how the parents taunted and called out to players on the field. “Come on, boy, sprint faster! FASTER!” Fanatical parents whose expectations and dreams rested on the shoulders of their adolescent children were frightening to all players. “Geez,” the opposing defenseman would say to me, “that kid’s dad on your team is crazy.” “Yea,” I sighed in agreement, “if we lose a game he usually beats him when he gets home.” I lied to see the reaction on my opponents face, and I added “if we lose by a lot he goes after the opposing team in the parking lot with his dodge truck—ok, good luck!”

It was always worse during half-time when the parents were allowed near their kids, and at times it was like having 40 other coaches there. “You have to kick the ball harder,” one parent would inform his son, “pretend it’s that person that annoys you—you know the one I’m talking about.” As our parent-coach drew on his miniature whiteboard with the knowledge that he gained from “Coaching for Dummy’s”, he put his hands in center waiting for everyone to follow his motion. When the kids—busy being coached by their own parents—didn't follow his lead, he desperately shouted “Come on everyone…gather over here!” After counting to three and getting an unenthusiastic shout from the kids and an enthusiastic shout from the parents, we all went to our positions on the field again.

The enthusiasm was always higher at practice than at games. At practice we were allowed to goof around, scrimmage without pressure from parents, and the informal setting always made it more entertaining. After one particularly bad game, though, our coach showed up with his game-face on and a new ultra-competitive attitude. “Who was this new man,” we all thought, and as he pulled out his new screamer whistle, he made every drill seem as if it were being administered by the Gestapo. “Faster, faster!” began to sound like “Schnell! Schnell!,” and I sometimes looked back to see if the coach had brought along vicious German shepherds to bite at our heels to help him administer the drills. After doing sprints for 15 minutes, he started picking on the slowest sprinters, blowing his whistle with so much force that it looked as if he would either have a hernia or his face would explode. He commanded the slowest to run laps for the rest of practice while the rest of us would practice passing, and as one of the kids started to speak in objection he blew his whistle as if to signal that was the final judgment.

After running 14 laps around the field, my friend, Daniel, had run more than his cholesterol-lined arteries could handle and went to the bench for some water. When the coach saw this he stormed over to Daniel and barked, “I didn’t tell you to stop yet, did I?!” As Daniel and the coach started to argue, we all approached the bench curious to see as much of the argument as possible, and when the coach gave the ultimatum to either “keep running or sit out the next game,” Daniel defensively blurted out “yea, well, why don’t you go f*ck yourself.” All of us gasped, and Daniel closed his mouth quickly as if he might still be able to catch the words between his teeth before it reached the coach’s ears. No one on the team had ever spoken to him in this way, and since he was now the Gestapo coach he would have no choice but to kill Daniel. Time had stopped, all of us waited for the coach to pull out a gun, but when nothing happened all of us were stuck standing still, afraid to move. When the coach shrugged, chuckled, and condescendingly said “you guys must be going through your ‘rebellious’ stage right now,” all of us were shocked. With the screamer whistle dangling from the corner of his mouth, we were all sure that we would witness a murder, but when nothing happened it was kind of a let down. We all liked Daniel—really, we did—but caught up in the drama, we were all standing still, holding our breath, briefly enjoying fantasies of knowing the secret that the coach had killed Daniel; making him be forever in our debt. “No more golf for you on Saturdays,” we’d tell him, “from now on you will come mow the lawn at my house instead of me.” Daniel and the rest of the team survived the rest of the season, and at the beginning of next season we were all on different teams.

Thinking about my soccer days made me walk down to the field to watch the game for a while. I imagined that in a former communist country competition must be scarce, and that instead of harsh words being thrown at each other at games, it would be like Woodstock in 1969—a huge love fest. “You’re such a great player,” I imagined a player complimenting his opponent, “can you teach me how you kick the ball so well?” As I got closer, the cheering that I thought I heard gradually turned into jeers and name-calling. “Faster, run faster!” one parent yelled to her son, “FASTER!” It was just like I was in the US again, and as I saw other parents standing up in the bleachers in anticipation for a yellow-card or a possible goal, I turned away and started walking home. I thought about how competition is human nature, and I reflected on how I always thought of competition in the context of things only tied to money or power. “I’m so retarded,” I thought, “of course all people are competitive wherever you go.” For some reason even the obvious escapes me at times, and it’s strange—and maybe sad—that I have to be in another country to realize these things.

Eucalyptus leaves + Vinegar socks = Cured

On the concrete strip that runs along the seaport in Batumi, a number of shanty cafes line the murky watered port allowing patrons to view the back drop of lush mountains to the north of the city. There is always a mixture of Batumi residents, tourists, and gypsies there so it is also a great place to people watch. The lush mountains and the people, however, are the not the main reason I frequent this location, but my main interest with this strip is to watch the barges silently drift in. Sometimes—like a big, childish fart—the barges blow their foghorns waking up near by babies, and the intensity from the foghorn’s booming sound sends chills down my spine and—like a wild beast maintaining its dominance with its ferocious display of power—makes me feel dwarfed next to its mammoth size. I never get bored watching the barges docking and loading their goods from all over the world, and it has become a hobby of mine to see where the barges are from. Usually they are from Nordic countries, but sometimes they come all the way from Africa, and I like to imagine that I was part of their long and—I’m sure—arduous journey. The people working at the port scurry on and around the barge, and from the café they look like little worker ants. Maybe it’s just that I like seeing people do hard labor while I sip on turkish coffee and sit in the shade of a giant umbrella, but lately I’ve found that going to the cafes at the ports are more interesting than going to the ones by the beach. If I get lucky enough to have a table right next to the grimy water I will sometimes see odd things floating idly up and down like a piece of trash stuck in purgatory. Usually disgusted, but sometimes amused or mildly interested, I will look up and see a row of people fishing twenty feet away, and I can’t help but wonder whether they are fishing for dinner, for fun, or for the food served at the cafe. Whatever their reasons are for fishing in the port, I never get the food there—just bottled water or coffee.

The other day when Chris and Emily came to visit from their villages we all met at the cafés at the port to catch up on the latest news and gossip. It’s important to note that most of us understand little of the news on the television, so our news is what is going on with Peace Corps volunteers all over ROG. I know this may sound like I am just trying to justify my enjoyment of gossip, and I will be the first to admit that someone else’s drama is by far better than my own drama. I mean, PEOPLE magazine doesn't stay in business from not selling, and although I don't have, and never will have, a subscription to PEOPLE or any other gossip magazine, I admit to picking it up to read at the gym when I was on the elliptical sometimes. I, like most Americans, might have an unhealthy obsession with what is going on in Hollywood. I think that everyone secretly follows celebrity gossip, and people who tend to be embarrassed by this are also usually ecstatic to hear someone bring it up in conversation. “Nick and Jessica may be getting divorced? what?!” “Ashton and Demi got married? What!?” “Britney Spears is a virgin? WHAAT?!” Right, moving on.

The Peace Corps gossip doesn't just focus on drama, of course, but also on what projects everyone has been working on, different events that may be coming up, romances, and, lately, the health status of volunteers. For instance, I was just sick with a fever last week, and because of the changing of the seasons I think a lot of people have been catching minor colds.

As the gossip turned to sick volunteers and the different ways Georgians get over the common cold, I started to hear things that range from practical to making absolutely no sense. One volunteer who was in the peak of his cold was in bed when his host mom came into his bedroom and started to lay eucalyptus leaves over his face while soaking his socks in vinegar and telling him to put them on. Confused at what was happening—and probably wondering if this was just part of a fever-induced dream—he got up and told them to stop. “Arsheidzleba (it is forbidden)!” his host mom said with conviction, and he had no choice but to let them keep piling eucalyptus leaves all over his face as if they were building a new settlement for ants right on his skull. I imagine that if that had been happening to me I would have thought that it was a Georgian facial they were trying to do to me, but, like this volunteer, I would still be confused as to why anyone would want to give me a facial when I was suffering from a fever.

Another volunteer was sick and her host dad was stirring a boiling pot of soup for her with a knife, and when she asked why, she was told it was “to ward off the evil-eye.” Not sure what to say to that she smiled politely, and got back to the business of trying to stay warm. Another volunteer was starting to get a minor cough, and when her host family heard this they immediately told her that it was because she has been swimming in the river. When she told her family that she had never been into the river—both for health reasons and because it never interested her—they still stuck by their theory that it was because she had dipped into the river of the nasty. I’m sure that according to her host family she will definitely be going to Hades for swimming—but not really—in the river too.

There are, of course, other myths that Georgians have of the body. If a man sits on cold concrete he will forever be sterile; if someone wears all red then he/she will be cured of the common cold; if a person doesn't wear house slippers indoors he/she will, most definitely, catch some air-borne illness; if a person has a high fever, rolling a hardboiled egg across his/her forehead will lower their temperature. Hypochondria and the paranoia grip the country, but despite—and maybe because of—that people here tend to live long lives. One volunteer’s host-grandfather talked to him about how he remembers Czar Nicholas when he came in through the first road built to their village—he is currently 97.

My host mom—who is a doctor—knew that I was sick and she brought me crackers to eat along with about 5 gallons of borjormi (natural Georgian spring water that tastes a little like sulfur) to drink. When I started to eat the crackers she immediately told me that I could not eat the crackers, and when I asked her why she simply told me it would be bad for my stomach and any bacteria in there. I wanted to ask “why, then, did you buy them for me?,” but feeling dizzy and tired I crawled back into bed.

I also believe that because my host mom is a doctor she is also a hypochondriac. “You’ll get sick if you walk without house slippers!” she will caution, as I walk 10 feet from my bed to my desk to get a book. “If you go run in this weather,” she said while waving her finger, “you will catch the flu!” As it was about 70 degrees Fahrenheit outside, I ignored her warning that day and went for a run anyway. It is hard because she always means well, but I feel that her worries will get so extreme that she will soon profess that I will get cancer if I take a shower.

The other day when it started to get cool at night, I was on my bed reading my latest book when I heard my door open and saw my host mom hauling in the electric radiator, plugging it in, and putting it on full blast. I had already sensed the cooler weather approaching and had pulled out my peace corps issued sleeping bag—equipped to handle 0 degrees Fahrenheit—and so I was already burning up by lying inside it. “It’s ok,” I reassured her, “I don't really need a radiator yet because I have my sleeping bag out.” Ignoring my plea she pushed the radiator closer to my bed, reminding me that Georgian winters are colder than American winters and left my room. Fearing that she would come in and check to see if it was still plugged in, I left it like that until everyone else went to bed, and by the time I saw the last light turn off in the house two hours had passed. Sweating, breathing heavily, and seeing heat waves rise from my hardwood floors, I sprinted to the window to let the cool night air rush in. You could say that my host mom means well, but she worries about me as if I’m a two year-old.

Another interesting health issue that I noticed is the hospital situation here. The Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO) came to Adjara a couple of weeks ago to visit all of the hospitals at volunteer sites, and all the volunteers had to go on these visits for the sole purpose that if something happened to the volunteer the hospital would make sure NOT to operate on the volunteer. I thought this was a little strange until John and I visited the hospital here in Batumi. This was a medical complex in the southern part of Batumi, and as the PCMO, John, and I slowly found our way to the entrance I felt a chill go down my spine. “This is just the reception area,” I reassured myself, as we slowly walked into a hallway with dusty concrete floors and pale green tiles lining the walls. As we walked into the room on the left I saw a pale white curtain—the kind that is used to divide rooms—and I heard a high-pitched drilling noise and instinctively flinched and let out a silent shriek. I was sure that I would hear someone scream in any minute, and as the PCMO went deeper into the room to ask someone where the main office was I couldn’t move—I was frozen with fear in my position. Like an old oak tree I had rooted my feet in the ground, and I felt that even hurricane strength gales would not be able to move me. Luckily, the room that we were in was only the dental office and not the main office of the hospital complex, so we left and made our way across the courtyard to a building with missing windows, uneven stairs, and dim lighting. A strange odor lingered in the air—a mixture of dust, aspirin, and that inescapable unknown hospital smell—as we made our way into the Director’s office. After a brief introduction and being assured that we would not ever be operated on, we went to see the ICU.

The ICU was housed in another building, and as we made our way back through the courtyard people with eye patches, crutches, and bandages around their heads emerged from the building. With my imagination now fully alert from seeing the wounded emerging from the building, my paranoid brain started rapidly firing exciting fantasies about what terrible things were going on inside. Scenes from various movie scenes popped into my mind—Frankenstein, Evil Dead II, Saw, Nightmare on Elm Street—the fear of the unknown gripped me. Climbing the rickety stairs to the ICU I tried holding my breath as long as possible to keep myself from breathing the stagnant hospital stench, and as we came to a brown door that looked like it was last painted 20 years ago, the PCMO, John, and I slowly stepped in. There were no lights inside, and the sunlight outside was flooding in through grimy windows casting a tan, green, and gloomy light on the walls, chairs, and beds of the ICU. A woman janitor was mopping the floor with the customary mop—a stick with an old sweater attached to it. As we walked further down the hallway I looked to my right to see a room entirely covered from floor to ceiling in pale green tile, and on a hospital bed laid a man that could easily have weighed in at 300 lbs with pipes coming out of his mouth. “O-M-G,” I said with a hint of panic in my voice, “what are we going to do if we get taken in here?” John just looked toward me and lifted his eyebrows in a way that I knew meant “who knows?,” and we both sighed and followed the PCMO to a small office in the ICU. After meeting the ICU director and, again, being reassured that we would not be operated on, I walked as fast as I could out of the hospital. “So,” I inquired eagerly to John, “what’s the plan then?” “Never get hurt—ever,” said John with certainty, and I could only nod in agreement. The Peace Corps has an excellent medical policy and system in place so we really have nothing to worry about, but seeing the local facilities reaffirmed our vows to be as careful and healthy as possible—no risks will ever be taken on our part.

Throughout our entire visit, though, the PCMO kept on comforting us that in all of Adjara our hospital was by far the best. Later on at the café with Chris and Emily, this fact was confirmed when I heard all about their visits to the hospital. “No joke,” Emily excitedly said, “there was blood on the hospital wall!” With that fresh image in mind, I swore that I would never have another bad thought about Batumi ever again.

On a lighter note, being sick in ROG is a painful, arduous, and stressful process, and not because medical care is lacking—cause it’s not—but because I’m far away from home. During this past weekend and part of this week I came down with a cold…or something like it…and it peaked on Monday with my fever reaching 104 degrees Fahrenheit. The Peace Corps medical booklet that all PCV’s got has a number of parasitic diseases along with every other disease known to man in it, and as I lay sick with a fever I read through the booklet in utter horror. Giardia, tapeworms, ringworms, some type of brain worm, malaria; as I read from page to page I had hypochondriatic fantasies swirling around in my mind. “I think that my breath smells like sulfur,” I told myself, as I worried that I had the onset of Giardia. “Maybe I have early symptoms for polio or something—my legs hurt,” I text messaged another volunteer knowing well that I already had that vaccine years ago, and when I got a message saying “No you don't—idiot,” I relaxed from the reassurance and slept a little more. I woke up numerous times during the night from fever-induced nightmares, and each time I woke up I wondered if I was inside a helicopter being whisked away to Tbilisi, but seeing the blinding neon pink paint in my room I realized that I was still in ROG.

As I was heaving into a plastic bag later that night—the blood flushing out of my face and sweat rolling down my temples—the thought crossed my mind that if I was in America and if I had Belle (my faithful and awesome dog) with me I would have commanded her to just bite me in the jugular and end my suffering. “Belle, baby,” I imagined myself speaking to her, “as your master and best friend I order you to give me the lethal blow to end my suffering!” Fortunately—or unfortunately—Belle isn’t here with me, and I instead just sucked it up and suffered through a painful healing process. I think when anyone is at his or her weakest they want something comfortable, and along with the high fever I became somewhat homesick. It wasn't that bad, but when I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like someone had taken a bat and lynched me while I was sleeping, I really missed the comfort of my own bed, friends and family, my sonicare toothbrush, high-speed internet, my dog, a nice gym, and other things I had back home even if it had nothing to do with me getting over my cold. My host mom commented today as I was getting ready to leave for work that I am a “little boy trying to act like an adult,” in that motherly “you’re taking on a lot for your age” kind of way, which made me feel that my homesickness was somewhat justified.

The country director jokingly said that if you get sick it’s a great because “it’s a cheap and free way to diet,” and even though that is a really positive way to look at being temporarily ill, I’d rather be healthy and diet without the aid of sickness or a plastic bag. But as they say, “whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger,” and I like to live by the saying “I’ll try anything once, twice if I don't die” and since I didn’t die this time around, I say to both homesickness and physical sickness “BRING IT ON!"

A non-superhero related update

As you all may know, hockey is very near and dear to me--especially my home town team the ATLANTA THRASHERS--and they were on strike last season leaving me devastated and, at times, craving some hockey loving. At first I admit that I was a little bitter because the previous season had started out so promising before they decided to mess up their big lead the closer it got to play-off season, but putting that aside, ever since this season has started I have been following the Thrasher's progress to the top all the way from ROG. Yes, you could say that i am the ULTIMATE fan, but all that aside I am really excited (a little bummed because I won't be able to go to their games) that they are playing this season. Kovalchuk is back (his birthday is in April so I feel that we are somewhat related/close--not really though), and my favorite defense Exelby is back as well--yay! Right now they are 2-1, so I think they are having a good season (ok, not really a season yet...but it's a good sign) so far.

-Kovalchuk demonstrating his ice cold skills:


So I dedicate this entry to my one and only love--the Atlanta Thrashers.

Go Thrashers!

Chavki

I’ve been good about not going to Tbilisi on the weekends, and, so, it’s been two weeks so far of me staying at my site on Saturday and Sunday. It’s really not bad at all because instead of rushing to catch trains, uncomfortably sleeping in the night train, spending money on hotels, and blowing lots of cash on food and what not, I can sleep in and catch up on work and laundry instead—yea, my life is exciting. Last week a lot of volunteers went to Kutaisi to help out with the first ever Breast Cancer Awareness walk to be held in ROG, and I sounded like it was a huge success and a lot of fun. It was organized by a former PCV, and apparently after the event they had enchiladas and margaritas, so I was really kicking myself that I didn't go. One volunteer informed me that they made a mistake when they printed the t-shirts for the event and wrote “BREAST AWARENESS” instead of “BREAST CANCER AWARENESS.” I would have killed to have that t-shirt, so, again, I was kicking myself for not going. It seems that they might as well written “TITS” on all the shirts if they were going to do that, but I guess some small slip ups make for good laughs. Anyway, events like that are always tempting to go to because it’s for a good cause, but mainly because it’s a good excuse to see everyone else.

This weekend I decided to stay at my site again because, well, there were some people coming here. Laura came on Friday from Ozurgeti, and for dinner John, Kevin, Laura, and I had a khinkali making party. It was a lot of fun, and I’m really happy that my host family likes having my friends over. As Laura made the khinkali skillfully, my host mom kept telling her about how she’d make a great wife—making her laugh nervously—and, overall, the night was filled with laughter.

-John, Laura, and Kevin expertly making Khinkali in my host family's kitchen:


This weekend, though, I made a day trip with John to visit a PCV who lives in a small village about 20 minutes north of Batumi to mix things up…

“The 122 marshutka, right, where can we catch the 122?” John asked Chris on his cell phone as we roamed the streets of Batumi.

“It’s…uh…around the corner. You know, you go down that big street and then it’s, like, on the corner.” Chris tried to explain where we could catch the marshutka in vain.

John grunted an OK, nodded and hung up with Chris.

“So where’s it at?” I asked, but John just took his time putting away his phone, looked at me, and then said, “I really have no idea.” After discussing it for a bit, we decided that the best bet would be to find a marshutka at Chavchavadze Square because most of the marshutkas leave from there to go north to Kobuleti. After asking around we were told to get on the yellow bus, and so—like lemmings—we found a bright, yellow, new-looking bus and got on. I asked someone sitting up front when we would be leaving and she responded, “we’re leaving now.” I didn't realize it at the time, but “now” is relative when it comes to ROG. “Now” in ROG can mean anything from “we’re leaving to go to the bazaar right now” meaning that they will leave in about 4 hours, to “Ok, we go now,” meaning that we leave in about 10 hours. Well, the girls’ interpretation of “now” really meant they would be leaving whenever the bus was full, and the word “full” was also being loosely applied to the situation. “Full” in this situation meant that we would wait until we got so many people onto the bus that a) there is not room to breathe, b) your face is inevitably shoved into someone’s non-deodorantized armpit, c) when you are pinned to either a person, chair, pole, or window, d) when you are close enough to someone to tell that their body odor is way off the funkometer scale (see figure 1), and e) when driving you think the engine might die, not because the bus is old (cause it’s not), but because there are too many damn people on the bus.

-Figure 1:


We eventually survived the bus ride and made it to Chavki—a town between Batumi and Kobuleti—swearing that we’d never again ride the yellow bus. Chavki is an interesting town because it is apparently the wettest town in the former Soviet Union (seems like every small town has its own claim-to-fame no matter what country you go to), and most of the town is situated on a hill overlooking the sea. The day that we arrived we were lucky to have clear blue skies and beautiful autumn weather instead of the famed torrential downpour. Chris and Emily met us down by the main road and led us to Chris’s host family’s house on top of the hill, and on the way there I noticed a half finished structure that would have made an enormous house standing firmly in place. It was four stories tall, and I asked Chris what this building was doing here in the middle of a quaint and modest residential area. From the way it looked, I guessed that it was still under construction and would probably be built before winter arrived.

“Whoa, that is going to be a huge house when it’s done!” I said as we made our way up the gravel road. “Yea…I think that it’s pretty much done,” Chris explained, “I was told that there were four brothers that pooled their money together to build that house, but apparently they ran out of money and they are stuck with that.”

This building was just a skeleton—purely structural—but I saw large amounts of hay piled all over the first floor and also a clothes line with fresh laundry hanging off of it.

“It looks like someone is living there, though,” I observed, “do they still live there? Like…do they camp out on the first floor or something?”

“No, but I think there is like a miniature hut on the top of the house, and I think someone lives there.”

The thought was amusing—a house on top of a house—and it even sounded like something that might come out of a children’s book or poem, something like “the Old Woman in the Shoe.” After hiking a couple more minutes we made our way to Chris’s house and I immediately wanted to see her bedroom. Her window opened out towards the sea, and when we opened it a cool breeze drifted in. From her window you could see the unfinished four-story house, and, sure enough, on the top unfinished floor stood a little hut. After John took a picture of Chris, her room, and the house on top of the house, we headed into the garden to eat a little bit and hang out. Chris’s garden was pretty big and had an assortment of kiwi plants, mandarin trees, grape vines, and a lot of other flora. From where we were sitting we could see the sea, and the weather was just warm enough to be able to sit in the sun’s rays without becoming hot and uncomfortable. It was great having the chance to stuff myself without anyone pressuring me to eat more. The one annoying factor, though, was the host family’s pet German Shepard was tied inside what looked like a fallout shelter in the middle of the garden. His name was Lord, and he was a vicious, scary looking dog ready to kill (we later learned he is a very friendly dog). What I didn’t know at the time was that the fallout shelter was, in fact, just a little shed that led down to the garden, and that the shed housed the toilet and shower. This new information didn't settle with me too well because I had to go to the bathroom, and I was filled with panic at the thought of having to go face-to-face with Lord. Lord was in there, alone, and my paranoia was not helped by Chris’s stories of having her pants nearly ripped off by Lord earlier that morning when she went to the bathroom. “Yea, she, like, bites you in a playful way,” she said as she started showing me her arm, “I think you can still see the scratches on my arm from that.” Lord started to bark in that “playful” way, and my body froze. “Hold it in,” I told myself, “it’s only 5 more hours until you go home,” but the more I tried to not think about having to go to the bathroom the more I really had to go.

“Damnit,” I announced to the group, “I have to go to the bathroom.” As I descended the stairs leading into the fallout shelter I felt like I was Dante and the fallout shelter was the first circle of Hell. “It’s only a dog, it’s only a dog, it’s only a medium-sized dog,” I chanted to myself, but as soon as I got in front of Lord he started rabidly barking and I squealed, sprinted into the bathroom, slammed the door shut, and immediately locked the door. I was glad I was in the bathroom because another second outside with the dog and I would have peed in my pants, but now inside the safety of the bathroom—the dog still psychotically barking right outside the door—I could avoid peeing in my pants. As I flushed the toilet and peered outside, the dog glared at me, and, for some reason, I felt that it was just hungry and surely just needed some food. “Crap, I have no food,” I thought, and I cursed to myself and looked around. “Ok, there is the ventilation fan, toilet paper, and I have handkerchief in my pocket,” I whispered to myself as I began to feel like McGuiver in a dire situation, and swore that I would watch more McGuiver when I got back to the states. Unable to be creative in a stressful situation I balled up some toilet paper and threw it at Lord who after sniffing it looked up at me. Giving up, I faced reality and walked out thinking I would be mauled, but instead Lord came up and sniffed me. “This dog is harmless,” I thought, and I smiled and pet Lord as if he had never scared me.

The reason that we went to Chris’s village, besides to just visit, was to bake funfetti cake. If you have the funfetti cake, though, it is common sense that you have to have the funfetti icing or at least something similar to it—I mean, come on, it’s mandatory. Since no one had the funfetti icing we were left to make icing on our own. Emily had been a nanny before she came to ROG, and because of her Martha Stewart like experience she informed us that all we really needed to make icing was powdered sugar (didn’t have that), butter, and a tiny bit of milk. Chris’s host family had a food processor (something like a cuisinart), so we tried to make powdered sugar by utilizing that, but even then the sugar didn't get pulverized enough to become powder and the icing came out looking like grits instead. As the cake was baking in the customary oven that all Georgians have (it looks like an easy-bake oven on steroids), the air filled with the smell of delicious American cake. I closed my eyes and slowly breathed in through my nose imagining that I was back at my apartment baking brownies, chocolate-chip cookies, sugar cookies, and cake with Rebecca and Glen. These little spurts of Americana are teases, but, really, all I need are small doses of this to avoid homesickness. After coming back to reality I realized that the host sister was trying to solve the problem of the “grits” icing by putting the icing over a small flame, melting the sugar and liquefying it so we could pour it over the cake when it was done.

When the cake was finally baked (box said 32 minutes, but it actually took an hour) we poured the now tar looking icing over the cake. It immediately crystallized and formed a hard Kevlar like shell on top of the cake. When I bit into it I heard the sugar crystals crunching between my teeth, and I felt that my teeth would immediately rot off. “Well,” I said, “it’s not so much icing as it is just sugar,” but this didn’t deter any of us from devouring the cake—a symbol of things we missed from back home.

-Emily hungrily licking the mixing bowl/pan:

-we are all happy to eat funfetti cake - it's just that much fun:


As the sun began to slowly set into the sea, we decided to go home before it really got dark. The challenge from here was trying to flag down a marshutka, and this proved more difficult than we would have ever imagined. We tried several different ways to flag them down, but the marshutkas kept on zooming past us leaving us to breathe in their exhaust. “John, you’re doing it all wrong,” I explained, “this is how you really have to do it.” I saw a marshutka coming in the distance and displayed the hitchhiker thumb thinking that this was a foolproof way to get their attention. “It’s mine,” I scoffed, as it sped by without the driver even looking in my direction, leaving me idly standing in a whirlpool of dust. Looking like a fool, John looked over at me and stated, “No, that won’t work because they don't know what that means. This is how you do it.” John put his hand straight out in front of him and started to wave his hand inward as if to seductively call out to the marshutka. If I didn't know any better I would have thought John was doing a mating ritual for marshutkas, and I skeptically looked over to see if a marshutka would really stop. As a second marshutka approached it also blew right past us. Both of our ideas defeated, we began to try and flag down any vehicle that came by, but we had no luck. At one point, I was getting so desperate that I thought we would just need a little flare to get their attention. “How do you add flare to your hands?” I pondered, and it suddenly hit me—spirit fingers! As I explained to John that we just needed spirit fingers—the skill used by cheerleaders since the beginning of time—to flag down a marshutka he looked at me like I was crazy. As soon as he looked away, I immediately busted out my spirit fingers and the marshutka still flew past me. Short of chucking a rock at an oncoming marshutka I was out of ideas, but right when I was about to admit defeat we saw a marshutka pull off the road to drop someone off. John and I sprinted towards the marshutka and finally got on—we would be going home.

-a view from Chris's window at sunset..you can see the house on top of the house too: