Business Travel

-My journey across the land of ROG:


What to say about the east of ROG and the different ways to get there? Kakheti is the eastern region of ROG where 12 pcvs currently reside, and as one notable PCV living in Kakheti notes, “KAKHETI ROCKS—YEAH!” When I found out that I would be going to the eastern region of ROG I was pretty excited because it had been talked up so much. My host dad—the only commercial winemaker I know—always fondly talked about how beautiful Kakheti was, and how he considered it the true wine country of ROG.

Before I get into my story, though, I think it’s important to talk about what exactly I do right now for my NGO that I work for. I am currently revising their website where we plan to implement tons of sustainable elements (all part of the superhero plan); making outreach presentations throughout ROG on educational opportunities abroad; holding a presentation on university structure because universities in ROG are consolidating and need information on the different models that exist; in the planning stages of making a career resource center; revising the strategic, long-range, and operational plans of the organization; holding a essay writing class; and also a number of other things. I don’t want to get into too much detail here because, well, I’m a competitive freak and I want to keep my ideas to myself until I finish writing my project plan and will be in the first stages of implementation. Right, moving on.

Taking these activities into mind, I’m currently in the implementation stage of the outreach presentations. This means have already held presentations in numerous university towns that ISAC (the NGO that I work for) has offices in. My counterpart and I have traveled and made presentations to universities in Telavi, Akhaltsikhe, Kutaisi, Tbilisi, and Batumi. This all happened last week, and traveling from one part of ROG to the next—although highly enjoyable for tourism reasons—is exhausting to say the least. I have a couple of friends that currently work in consulting firms, and when they talk about their travel they talk of four star hotels, Zagat rated restaurants, and chauffer services that are all charged to the clients account—not so in the Peace Corps. In a casual conversation with my good friend (and former roommate) Glenda, we talked about his consulting travels to Houston.

: Yea, it’s so tiring to work and travel.”
: “Yea, I totally understand that, but don’t you get to stay in nice hotels and eat really nice food?”
: “Uh, YEA! If I’m working 14 hour days I better be eating and sleeping well!”
: “Now, how much would you say a typical night at the hotel you stay at costs?”
: “Maybe, like, $150 a night?”
: “…Glenda…I feel ripped off being charged 20 lari—roughly $10—a night!”
: “you're changing Yuta.”
: “OMG, my standards have plummeted so much that I’d now be ecstatic to stay in a box with hot water! WHAT IS PEACE CORPS DOING TO ME?!”

While Glenda sleeps in his four-star bed with his plush feather pillow, I am traveling in a private marshutka with bucket seats—my back aching—worrying about whether or not the next hotel will have heating and hot water. The weather report to Glenda may not mean much to his comfortably heated work environment, but I avidly listen to the forecast as if an oracle were revealing the when and how of my death. Looking online for weather forecasts before I left, I determined that since it had just snowed in Akhaltsikhe I would probably have to wear at least four layers of clothing so I wouldn’t freeze to death in the middle of my presentation at the unheated university. Glenda might travel 2 or 3 hours to travel across 3 states, but I will travel 8 hours to get across a country that is the size of South Carolina. Upon arriving to his consulting site, Glenda might work 12 hours a day, but when I arrive to my presentation site, I will probably idly chatting with university officials for 2 hours while having coffee and tea snacks before I start my presentation. We are both exhausted from traveling, just for different reasons.

In Telavi—where my first presentation was—I was, quite frankly, unprepared for the elements. The jagged, black, peaked mountains that could be seen from the road were the first sign of trouble, but at the time I was naively thinking about how beautiful they looked. The road to Telavi curved up and around hills, and during the entire ride I looked down the flat, treeless valley. Looking further and further, I noticed that the end of the valley suddenly turned jet black—as if I were looking into an abyss—and as my eyes looked further up I saw the jagged peaks of the north caucuses. There was an eerie beauty about how the calm valley contrasted heavily with the jagged and treacherous mountains, and as the clouds broke spots of sunlight dotted the valley below.

-What I had back in Batumi (AWESOME photo by JOHN):

-Looking down on Telavi:


Arriving at the university, I stood at the entrance taking in the drab exterior. Windows were missing, paint was chipping off, and the bars on all windows demonstrated the economics situation of the university. It was a depressing sight to take in, and walking into the building just made it seem even gloomier. As we made our way to the presentation room the lights flickered on and off in the hallway, and a rancid stench escaped from the hole in the bathroom door. The rooms had no heating, and as I set up the computer and projector I could see my breath. “It’s…ah…re-re-re-re-really cold in here,” I told my counterpart, Natia. As the presentation progressed, my hands, feet, face, and even thighs became numb. Knowing that it was highly unprofessional to jump up and down during a presentation, I sucked it up until the end of the presentation to run up to the office and warm myself up next to a space heater. The life in the east is so much more different than the west, and as John says “west is the best!”

Leaving Telavi, I traveled next to Akhaltsikhe, Kutaisi and then finally back to Batumi. Gradually making my way westward, I noticed that life really is better in the west. The weather gradually warmed up and the scenery became subtropical, food started to taste better, and even the people were more attractive (no, just kidding about the last one)!. In Kutaisi I was taken on a tour of one of the city’s famous churches where I was lectured on the grandeur of Georgian history. The tour guide was so proud of the history, in fact, that he even let me hold a fourth century artifact that was housed in a separate archeological building. At the end of the tour, he asked me to write down my observations, feelings, and reflections on what I had seen that day. And so I wrote…

“Seeing all the artifacts truly showed me that Georgia has a complex, elaborate, and interesting history. I can say that I’ve learned a lot today, but all I have to say is that the west is the best!

Your favorite superhero,

Yuta”

-Natia and I in front of the church:

-Inside the university, jk:

-Hilltop view of Kutaisi:

-Me holding a 4th century frying pan - yeah~:

A Whole lada Ladas

I’m 5’5” now, not 5’6”. Usually after a cab ride in ROG I find myself an inch shorter than when I entered the car. The logical reason for my shortened height would be that the roads are plagued with potholes that are big enough for burial spots, and a car/marshutka/bus going over these potholes would make you slam your head against the ceiling of the vehicle so that your vertebra gets forcibly knocked inside a bigger vertebra. Not so in Batumi, my friends, because most of the roads in Batumi are usually paved and well maintained. The cabs, though, are a different story.

About 90% of cabs in ROG are Ladas—cars made in Russia—and they resemble the car that Mr.Incredible rides in the beginning part of the movie (if you haven’t watched The Incredibles, please stop reading and go rent the movie right now). They are boxy, small, vaguely resemble go-carts, and are the antithesis of a Lexus, Cadillac, or Mercedes. Obviously my view of the Lada is a bit biased because I have not had the pleasure of seeing a brand new Lada, but from what I have seen of the older models they make an ’81 Volvo look like a sexy hotrod.

The interior of an older Lada—as put by my Georgian friend—can be politely described as “lacking but modest,” and I have had many interesting experiences riding in them. I don’t think that Ladas have certified mechanic centers because one time I saw a Lada pulled over the side of the road—hood wide open—with the driver applying duct tape to the engine. While pipes wildly dangled out of the hood of the car, the driver ripped the duct tape with his snaggletooth, wiped the sweat from his forehead—accidentally smearing oil on his face—and started to tape pipes together. I am not sure if the people at Lada would be pleased to hear that their customers are using duct tape to fix their engines, but I’m sure they are proud that their cars have lasted through the Cold War, Perestroika, the Civil War, and the Rose Revolution—a feat that not even the most avid Honda driver can claim. According to John’s (real) father, the engineering on Russian vehicles may not use the best technology, but they can be easily repaired by anyone (including a person with, say, duct tape). Instead of having a slew of tools, a typical toolbox for a Lada owner includes only one item—duct tape. Reliability may not be their main selling point, but toughness and versatility definitely are.

It’s always a special occasion with cab rides in ROG because, you see, in American cab rides you don’t always get treated to a combination of thriftiness and excitement. Out of habit—and perhaps mainly out of frugality—all taxi drivers here shut their engines off whenever they get the chance for maximum fuel efficiency (the effectiveness of this is, of course, debatable). Once reaching the top of a hill, for instance, it’s common that drivers will shut off their engine and pop the car into neutral to cruise for the ride downhill. Fiercely dodging cows, children, and the elderly, cab drivers in ROG will wait until the very last second to slam on their brakes. One time I was in a cab that actually hit an old lady crossing the street, but instead of getting out of the cab to help the newly crippled woman, the cab driver screamed with rage, raised his hand in disbelief, and proceeded to start his engine and speed off angrily saying, “can you believe that old hag hit my car?!” “You hit her,” I thought, but I was scared for my life and shocked beyond words, so I only shrugged and shook my head.

Almost all taxis in ROG also lack a proper meter, so every cab ride is like an auction. “Two lari to the Boulevard,” I’d bargain, but being stubborn and seeing that I was a foreigner most cab drivers will try to charge me twice—sometimes three times—the normal cab fare. “Gas is expensive right now,” they’d try and argue, but as soon as I hear an absurd price I slam the door and hail down another cab. Usually by the third cab I will get a decent quote for a cab fare and will climb in. One time in Tbilisi, I made the mistake of getting in without asking for how much the ride would cost. “Twelve lari,” the driver said with a grin at the end of the ride, but in shock I handed him a five lari bill. “I said twelve,” he repeated, and as he persisted I became very annoyed. “God is watching you!” I exclaimed, “how can you try and take advantage of a foreigner, I thought that guests were gifts from God to Georgians!?” I continued to shout every proverb and saying I learned from my Georgian tutor, and the driver—exasperated and perhaps outdone—eventually gave up and went on his way.

About a month ago I was visiting a friend on the other side of town, and since I was tired and didn’t want to wait for a marshutka I decided to hail a cab down instead. The first taxi that came my way was an old cream-colored Lada. Slowly chugging along—the engine sounding like it was transplanted from a lawnmower—the engine popped before it stopped. As smoke billowed out of the hood, the driver violently punched the door open and asked where I was going. “Gamsakhudrias Kucha,” I said, and as he waved me inside his cab, a noticeable dent indicated that the backdoors would not open due to a previous car accident.

As I climbed and sat down in the passenger seat I immediately noticed its rough interior. The fabric from the ceiling was ripped and hung down in front of my face; the windshield was cracked and looked as if it had two bullet holes; and one of the windshield wipers was broken into place and stuck halfway through it’s half-moon motion as if the Lada were flipping the bird to other cars. The smell of cigarettes had permeated the interior of the car, and I imagined what color the interior must have been before being stained yellow by the tar of cigarette smoke. “Off-white,” I silently decided, and as I looked at the backseats I noticed that they too were ripped. Springs burst out of the fabric covering the seats, and I thought of previous passengers who must have been surprised to be poked in the back or butt while climbing into the cab.

Sporting his stylish uni-brow while slouching his enormous frame over the steering wheel, the driver smiled at me as he attempted to start his beloved Lada. The engine started to choke, and as he violently hit the steering wheel I realized that the Lada was also was having a bad day. “The car won’t start,” the driver said while his cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, “can you get out and push?” Normally I would get out, close the door, and walk about 50 feet to hail down another cab, but for some reason I was feeling incredibly nice and I decided to help the old man and his Lada out—I am a superhero after all. As I placed my hands onto the back of the dirty Lada, I realized the absurdity of the situation. I was paying this man to take me home, and yet I found myself standing behind his car ready to push with all my strength to get it going. “Only in Peace Corps,” I thought. I started to push to the car and the heavy driver, and the car slowly inched forward. Little by little the Lada gained speed, and after pushing for about fifty feet the driver finally popped the clutch and the engine violently started up. “Ha-ha!” the driver exclaimed, “get in, get in!”

Chugging along the newly paved road, the Lada strikingly contrasted with all the new renovations and maintenance in Batumi. Even with the absence of potholes, the Lada somehow managed to provide a violently bumpy and jerky ride. As the shocks squeaked with every jerk of the steering wheel, I looked around the inside of the car. The radio was missing, and in its place was a tin box filled with the cab driver’s earnings. As the driver lit another cigarette I reached for the window crank, but as I absentmindedly grabbed for it I found that a Band-Aid made from duct tape had replaced it. Sighing with exasperation, I asked the driver to put out his cigarette by telling him that I was allergic to smoke. He nodded, and he smothered the cigarette—its amber still glowing red—into his own seat and flicked the cigarette butt into the backseat.

Getting closer to home, I leaned back into my seat—feet firmly planted onto the floor of the Lada—and reached my hand into my front pocket for the cab fare. I heard the chair groan with all the pressure I was applying to it, and with a quick, sudden pop, the passenger seat gave way and flew backwards. Now lying horizontally in my seat—looking directly up at the torn fabric from the ceiling of the car—I thought about the hilarity and sadness of the situation. “This problem,” I thought, “cannot be fixed with duct tape.” Seeing that the driver would have to actually pay to get it fixed, I decided to give him five lari instead of my normal two. The driver hesitantly chuckled and said, “it’s old, but it’s a good car!”

As I climbed out of the cab and shut the dented door, I thought about how maybe a country like ROG likes tradition so much that it desperately clings to things from the past. Sometimes seeing people cling to their Ladas reminds me of the famous Charleton Heston quote, “from my cold, dead hands!” Like some of Batumi’s sewage pipes that date back to Czar Nicholas II and are (reportedly) made from wood, maybe Georgians cling to their aging possessions, and subsequently to their weather-beaten Ladas, like a person desperately clinging to an old 8-track or VHS player. Unable to afford something newer and more technologically sound, it’s as if they are hoping that it will cleanly play that tune or play that video one more time. Money, of course, is the problem here, and it is probably the main reason why everyone still desperately attempts to fix their Ladas with duct tape. Who knows, though, maybe Ladas will one day become a tourist symbol for ROG like the London cabs are a symbol of London. Either way, after every death defying Lada ride I always find myself with an interesting story and a new appreciation for being alive.

-The lada in all its glory:

-Lada showing it's junk in the trunk:

Niece Update

Hi, it is time to update everyone on the cutest little girl in the world - my niece. Check it out!

-Sumiko and Emmy beaming at the camera:

-Emmy is dazzled by a box (signs of intelligence):

-Emmy poses for her first glamour shot:


I'll see her in two years, and I think by then she'll be able to walk...or something. What's the timeline for growth with babies anyway?

We Mexi-CAN make good food!

This entry starts out with the tale of a charitable heart. Chris Jones (aka “girl” chris) who lives in Chakvi recently participated in a silent auction whose proceeds went to fund renovations for an orphanage here in ROG. The silent auction was organized by a PCV who received a load of American food ingredients from a former embassy official who was moving back to the states, and she decided to auction off food stuffs such as Tabasco, ketchup, Thai food mix, soy sauce, seasoning, brownie mix, maple syrup, pancake mix, and the like. Chris—who truly has a heart of gold—bid on ten items thinking that she would only win one or two, but when she heard back that she had won all ten items she was shocked. I think it is safe to say that she was the single highest contributor to the silent auction, accounting for 1/8 of the funds raised. “Yea…” she said as she recounted her huge financial blow, “I bid on ten items thinking I wouldn’t really win all ten, you know? It’s, like, a quarter of my living allowance.” Truly, she has a heart of gold.

Most Wall Street types might opt for the 50th floor window after such a huge financial loss, but being a positive, energetic, and laidback PCV, Chris took her financial meltdown in stride. Her mom—someone who must also be a saint—sent her taco seasoning and chili powder, and so she decided to host a Mexican food night this weekend. Living in a country where nostalgic food items are not easily available, I think that even the smallest things can make you ecstatic.

When I lived in the UK I was able to find many familiar things, and I couldn’t think of many items that I missed from back home. In ROG, though, it is very different. Anytime there is a chance for PCVs to congregate, we passionately discuss the different types of food we miss as if they were former lovers. “You know what’s creamy, soft, velvety, and easy on the eyes?” one volunteer rhetorically asked, “fettuccini alfredo from Maggianos—there’s just nothing better.” Every vivid recollection starts with someone staring off into the distance—as if the item they longed for was just five feet away—and dreamily saying, “you know what I’d kill for?” That question usually opens a flood of gluttonous memories, and the tortuous conversation would last for hours, if not the entire weekend. “The Oreo dessert from TGI Fridays,” one volunteer said while absentmindedly drooling, “it comes with the caramel and chocolate sauce all over it.” “No,” another argued, “I’d kill for the Cheesecake Factory’s anniversary Godiva chocolate cheesecake—OMG, kill me now!” If a person were to ease drop in the middle of the conversation they would think that we were all starving to death in ROG, but the opposite is true—we’re being stuffed like foie gras.

“Queso, refried beans, salsa, enchiladas,” one volunteer listed as he taunted a volunteer from Texas. “OMG,” the volunteer from Texas screamed while holding her head in her hands in agony, “stopppp, you’re killing me!” The cold weather here may be doable, but talk to anyone about food and it is instant torture. The food that gets mentioned the most, though, is probably Mexican food, and so when we heard about Mexican food night we flocked to Chakvi like it was our Mecca.

Having only some of the ingredients for making Mexican food, it was a challenge to figure out how to substitute for the missing ingredients. We had taco seasoning, but we didn’t have lettuce; we had beans, but not the right kind; we had ingredients to make salsa, but not guacamole. Another challenge was that most of the Mexican food that we ate in the states was usually pre-made, so it was the first time for us cooking everything from scratch. While the refried beans, taco-seasoned meat, and salsa were made flawlessly (and deliciously!), the real challenge was making the tortillas. I am not sure if many of you have ever attempted to make tortillas, but after laboring to make 24 tortillas I have a newfound respect for people who still make it themselves. The Mexican women who do still make tortillas by hand must have forearms the size of my thighs.

The recipe calls for 6 cups of all-purpose flour, 4 tablespoons of baking powder, 3 teaspoons of salt, and 2 cups of warm water. After combining those ingredients you have to knead the dough for about 15 minutes or until it is smooth and not flakey like dandruff. After letting it sit for 15 minutes, you flatten the dough and start rolling it out. I understand that the prepackaged tortillas are perfectly round—made by some tortilla making prodigy no doubt—but ours came out looking like a 1st grade drawing—distorted and not really clear of what it is. Some turned out looking like hearts or ovals, while others came out like what the bird flu under a microscope would look like. The hard part was making the tortillas as thin as possible—pushing with all my weight with the roller—and after doing ten I felt that my forearms were strong enough to turn coal into diamonds.

Chris and I intensely at work (look at those bulging forearms!):


When everything was cooked to perfection, we moved to the dining room where we displayed the food, the Mexican food that is, which looked fit for a king. The aroma that permeated the taco-seasoned ground beef made me weak in the knees, and I quickly sat down so I wouldn’t collapse onto the table. There was an awkward silence and stillness between everyone before we started to eat—like the calm before a storm—because all of us were afraid to make the first move to touch the food in front of us. We were all unsure if it was a mirage caused by hallucination from the drinking water, or a cruel trick played by our desperate imaginations. “Well,” John said calmly as to not disturb the peace, “let’s eat.” As we assembled our burritos, we were all in awe of the food that we scooped into our deformed tortillas. “Oh maaaaaaaan,” I exclaimed, “SAAAAAALSA! YEA-YUH!" “Is this sour cream?!” Erin incredulously asked, and seeing her intensely gaze at the sour cream made it seem as if she would fall to her knees and break down into tears at any moment. “MmmmMmm,” John said in ecstasy, “this is so good! I am just so tired of Georgian food!”

With that statement, John pretty much summed up the underlying reason for our obsessive habit of talking about food. We were all tired of Georgian food, but most of us didn’t really think about what was causing our obsession until John pointed out the obvious. Secretly inside, we were all thinking that we have had enough cheesy bread, enough walnut sauce, and enough fried potatoes to last us a lifetime. But, once in a while, all you need is a little bit of Tabasco sauce, taco-seasoned beef, and warped tortillas to make you ready to eat another lifetime of all that Georgian cuisine. Bon apetit!

Chris beams as she displays the result of her financial meltdown on the table:

Erin and John show their excitement about the Picasso-esque tortillas:

Chris and I demonstrate that they are, indeed, edible:

Erin trying to extinguish the Tabasco fire in her mouth—HOT!:

Winter Activity Training

When I get home from work I retreat to my room to unpack, change clothes, or lie in bed, but most of the time I change into exercise clothes and go for a run. All of these things are done so I can escape my host family—or human contact—for a while because alone time is so, well, valuable. This is actually also all part of my preparation for winter when I will be crippled by the freezing weather and will refuse to go outside or anywhere that is not heated. I imagine that when the arctic winter arrives, I will have an incredible urge to jump into the fireplace in a brash attempt to warm myself up. With this in mind, though, I came to the conclusion that it is incredibly important to have a winter time activity that will keep me warm, so I have devised a plan to have my winter activity be exercise. What better way to spend time than to work out and stay fit, right? All PCVs have developed their own winter activities, and it’s interesting to hear all the different methods that PCVs plan to stay occupied.

Most of the time, though, I do enjoy a good run to relieve some stress or to get that refreshed feeling after a forty-minute run, but since autumn has arrived it has begun to get darker earlier and earlier everyday. As a result, I have been forced to either exercise indoors or go for a chilly run outside. When I do opt to go outside for a run, my host mom raises an eyebrow and—aside from her prophetic message of inevitable illness—warns me that “people will see you zooming by and think that you are a strange, strange American-Japanese boy running in the dark.” After a particularly long run my host mom asked how long I had run. “Six miles,” I told her, and as she raised her hands in disbelief, she humorously asked, “What was chasing you for six miles?” “Uh, your mom,” is what I really wanted to say, but instead, I shrugged my shoulders and told her that running in the frigid weather was routine for me back in the states.

When it rains I have to exercise inside, and with this new challenge I am forced to be creative and think of how to get my heart rate up—and keep it up—for at least thirty-minutes. This is pretty challenging because my room is so small and my Tae Bo DVD has not arrived from America yet, so the only place to exercise is in the family room in front of my entire host family. On the first cold and rainy day, I admitted defeat and walked into the living room ready to get my heart rate up by I confidently announcing to the family that “I’m working out—don't laugh at me.” Even as I was stretching and getting myself psyched up for a good workout, my family continued to entice me with food telling me that “you’re skinny enough—EAT!” Like any good Georgian family, my family cultishly chanted “tchame tchame (eat eat)!” and dangled bowls of chocolate in front of my face as I shook my head to refuse their offer. “No,” I wanted to tell them, “I don’t want to have a super-sized ass the size of a tanker.” With all eyes on me wondering exactly how I would exercise, I started doing jumping jacks. For thirty-minutes I jumped up and down—legs flailing outwards and inwards, arms flapping up and down—like the energizer bunny on speed. My youngest host-brother burst into laughter at this new form of exercise, and as he pointed his finger at me as if I was both deaf and blind, my host mom sighed and said, “Yuta, shen khar giji (Yuta, you are crazy).” They were no longer paying attention to the TV because they found a new form of entertainment—me.

Following my intense round of jumping jacks, I moved on to do other exercises. As I did squats, lunges, and crunches, my family continued to look at me like I was insane. “This targets your butt muscle,” I carefully explained as I lunged slowly across the room while pointing with my index finger at my gluteus maximus, “my butt will definitely be sore tomorrow, but also more sculpted.” Seeing me do squats, my host family commented on how I looked as if I was about to sit on the porcelain throne and continued to giggle. After a while, my host brothers kept telling me to do squats, lunges, and jumping jacks. They had never seen this form of exercise before and found it comical when I awkwardly lunged each leg forward dipping as far as I could. Over and over again they would yell out “Lunges! Now squats! No, now lunges!” and I was incredibly tempted to remind them that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer, not their monkey or play-thing.

I can only imagine what some of the other PCVs must go through with their exercise regiment or winter activities. I know that one volunteer does yoga in the family room, and, for a Georgian, I imagine seeing someone practice yoga in their living room must be a very bizarre experience. “Why,” they must be asking themselves, “would someone want to pull their legs over their head?” A volunteer in Telavi bought a guitar because she wanted to start learning how to play during the cold winter months, but I imagine that her family will make her play the only three songs that all Georgians know and love: Hotel California, the Georgian National Anthem, and Every Breath You Take. Another volunteer told me her plans to knit during the winter, but she fears that—like a one woman sweatshop—she will be forced to knit clothing for the host family all winter long.

Other volunteers have picked mundane winter activities such as reading or crossword puzzles, but I see the winter activity as an opportunity for cross-culture education. From seeing me do jumping jacks, squats, crunches and lunges, I have ambitious cross-cultural visions of my host siblings starting to mimic my moves, and—come spring—have buns of steel, chiseled abs, and bulging biceps. I have other ideas in the pipeline, but am hesitant to introduce them before winter actually starts out of fear that they would run out of the room unwilling to participate in my cross-cultural education process. In the middle of the freezing winter months, though, they will have to choose between freezing or sitting through my cross-culture lesson—no contest.

After talking to one of the volunteers from Hawaii, I eagerly recruited her to come visit and demonstrate hula dancing to my family. “What better way to demonstrate America’s diversity than an ethnic dance?” I thought; however, she was a little reluctant. “No bra,” she told me, “they don’t want to see me dance, they want to see us seductively dance together and give us high fives afterwards.” Despite one volunteer’s reluctance to participate in my cross-culture education ambitions, I will keep at it and think of newer activities besides just exercising.

The Simple Life

I experienced the simple life this past weekend. John and I went to visit another volunteer—Brian—who lives in a tiny mountain village called Vaio. Vaio has a population of about 600 people, and with one kiosk, one school, and one bridge, it makes Batumi seem like a metropolis. Even spending just two and a half days there, the difference between my Peace Corps experience Brian’s is evident.

Village life is very, very different from city life. In the village, when you wake up and look out the window you see mountains covered with trees that are painted adobe red, golden yellow, and an autumnal orange. Sometimes the fog will settle down so low that it looks like the clouds are embracing the trees as if they hadn’t seen them in years, and if you are really quiet you can hear the waterfall just two hills away. In the city, however, every morning I hear a baby crying; the loud, sputtering engine of a soviet-era car rumbling through the streets; and, if I am lucky, I hear rain and thunder that will drown out the racket. Cities can also be beautiful, but it is beautiful in that man-made way that is symmetrical and orderly, seemingly logical. Cities lack the charm that villages have, which is probably best highlighted by the chaotic beauty that is nature—trees that do not grow in straight rows, or rocks that do not lay side-by-side to form words, pictures, or symbols. Even though in villages roads are really just dirt and uneven rocks as opposed to asphalt, and even if they are riddled with cow dung, there is something charming about the simple life.

-Batumi in the morning from John’s bedroom window (John also took the pic):

-Dawn in Vaio from Brian's window:

All the food that we ate at Brian’s house was grown in the garden, milked in the shed, or slaughtered in the field. “Where do you buy bread?” I curiously asked Brian after recalling that there was only one store that did not even sell gum. Brian incredulously replied, “Uh…we make it.” The village, to me, is like a hippie paradise. Everything is au natural or homemade, and there is no question about whether or not the food is organic. You will never hear a snobby girl ask, “is that a free-range chicken?” because everyone knows exactly where the food came from. Village people also have great pride in growing their own food, and, because John and I were from Batumi, every dish we were served would be followed by the comment “this is natural food—fresh and healthy from the garden,” as if everything we ate in Batumi were contaminated with feces and waste.

Everything in Vaio is planned around the harvest. Just last week Brian’s school closed because the kids needed to help their parents with the harvest, so, instead of teaching, Brian hauled sacks of corn up and down the field all week long. As Brian, John, and I strolled through Vaio, we ran into his counterpart pushing a wheelbarrow through the muddy and cow dung plagued streets, where he promptly told Brian that they would lesson plan in “10 days…I have to finish the harvest first.” Yes, priorities in the village are different than that of the city. As I think about picking up my dry-cleaning, Brian and the people of Vaio are making wine, preserving food, and gathering for the winter. “We work now,” Brian’s host-dad told us, “but in the winter it snows, so for five months there will be no more field work!” My weekend escape from the city was great, but I think I would not last in the village for more than a week.

The main reason why we went to Vaio was because John and I wanted to see the village life and to go to a supra where Brian was the Tamada (the individual responsible for all the toasting during a supra). It was his first time being a Tamada, and for moral support and the free food we trucked our way to the mountains of Adjara to see him. When we finally arrived in Vaio the supra had already been going on for three hours, and after being seated and being handed our mandatory cup of wine, Brian looked over at me and said, “Dude, I’ve been doing this for three hours—I’m out of toasts.”

“I’ve toasted to ROG, America, friends, family, health,” he said with panic in his voice, “what else is there to toast!” Left with nothing new, he started to toast to John, to me, and to Peace Corps volunteers. This—believe it or not—went on for two or three hours, and after a few pitchers of wine, the supra became a karaoke show starring Brian’s host-dad. It was like a really bad night at the Apollo Theater, except we were not allowed to boo him off stage. “Saaaaaallikkooooooo,” he would tone deafly bellow, “PATAARAAAA GOOOGOOOOOOO~!!!!!” Without the slightest trace of embarrassment, Brian’s host-dad continued to belch out traditional Georgian songs as if we were all clapping and yelling “ENCORE! ENCORE!” The volume of his voice would only increase with his hopes to sound more in-tune or, perhaps, he was demonstrating his intense desire to be the Georgian Pavaratti. He failed at doing so, and with every song he inched closer and closer towards my seat. One song later he was sitting next to me and I was recruited to be his percussion, and so I clapped along to his deafening voice—now reaching dangerously high decibel levels—with his mouth just inches from my right ear. Like a seasoned boxer he was missing the front row of his teeth, and the remnants of unfinished food would fly towards me with amazing accuracy as he continued to croon. “Damnit,” I whispered to Brian, “I think a piece of meat just flew into my eye.”

-I attempt to articulately speak Georgian at the supra:

-Brian’s host-dad serenading me:

Waking up the next day with a slight headache from the earsplitting music from the night before, we were immediately called down for breakfast. Brian’s host-mom came into the kitchen carrying a bucket proclaiming “fresh milk!” and I looked over to Brian to confirm that he did, indeed, have a cow. Along with breakfast came a bottle of chacha (Georgian moonshine or jet fuel—take your pick), and I couldn’t help but feel sick already. Feeling that even a single glass of the lethal drink would destroy me, I opted to be a “bitchi (boy)” and not a “Kaci (man)” and pass on the firewater. “Who,” I thought, “could start drinking liquor with breakfast?” Alongside disgruntled office workers who prefer gin instead of cream with their coffee in the morning, most Georgian men could probably keep up with even the most avid alcoholics from the states. As Brian’s host-dad knocked one back like a seasoned veteran, I sat in amazement at the man’s resilience and strength. He was, surely, in his early to mid fifties, but with every drink he would close his eyes, grin his toothless smile, and yell out “Delicious! You know, this is natural and good for you!” After a couple of glasses of chacha he was very friendly, and we stood around the pechi (a wood burning stove) and started to chat when—flinging his hands into a fighting pose—he let a loud battle cry and screamed, “Yuta! HIEEEYAAAA~!” My first instinct was to shield my face from the slightly drunk man, but when he said “you are japanese, you know KARATE!?” I knew he was only curious. I often forget that—besides Jackie Chan or Jet Li from TV—I am probably the first Asian person that most Georgians see, especially in villages.

After breakfast we decided to hike up the mountain through the muddy roads so we could get a view from above. Having come to Vaio right after work, I was not prepared for hiking or staying the entire weekend so I came wearing a blazer, jeans, dress shoes, and a dress shirt. I borrowed some of Brians clothes, but I still had to hike in dress shoes - it was so painful. We didn’t get to the top because the road eventually lead us astray, but from where we were we could see the neighboring villages, the valley, and the closest regional center—it was beautiful.

A picture summary:

-The conditions of the roads in Vaio:

-The road going up the mountain:

-John and I with the valley behind us:

-I ecstatically pet a cow:


When we got back from hiking, we were recruited by Brian’s host-dad to help him make wine. We followed him into the cellar where we saw three huge containers of wine in different stages of production. Two of the containers were a week old, and the third one was fifteen days old. As he peeled back the plastic covering of the third container, a vinegary and pungent smell rose and stung my nostrils. I instinctively threw my head back, and Brian’s host-dad laughed and handed me an oar to start stirring the wine inside the huge containers. As I stirred, I noticed that bubbles were rising from the older container, while the newer ones only produced a sweet aroma. This was because the pungent wine with the bubbles rising was fermenting, and I was also told that within a month it would change from grape juice to wine. Along the cellar wall many jugs were lined up according to what stage of production they were in. The top shelves were lined with jugs of wine that were still fermenting, while the bottom shelves were jugs filled with “supta (clean)” wine, or wine ready to drink.

-Me stirring the huge container of wine (behind the container are the jugs of fermenting wine):

It was entertaining to stir the wine with an oar for about two minutes, but then my arms got tired and I was ready to go upstairs to sit by the pechi and warm up. As we all gathered in the only heated room in the house, I realized what village life was really like. Village life is knowing every person’s family, name, history, and dreams. Nothing is private and everything is public, and as much as I like my privacy and cherish time alone, there is something good to be said about a close community that is—in my opinion—a defining characteristic of village life...but thank god I'm in the city!

-Brian and his school:

-The school toilets (yes, both of those are toilets):

-John and Brian as we hiked our way to Keda (the regional center):

-John beams while holding with his Barilla Pasta bag and Vaio in the background: