Explosively ringing in the New Years (part deux)

As the clock struck midnight and President Mikhail Saakashvili appeared on national television to give, yet again, another speech, my host family sat glued to the television unable to look away. This man mesmerized them with his message of hope and prosperity, and at the magical hour of midnight they were under his spell. “Georgia is the best country in the world!” my host mom patriotically exclaimed after hearing the President’s speech. As she quietly stepped out of the room my host dad began to pour the French champagne that he had bought in preparation for the New Year’s celebration. “Cheers to Georgia” he croaked while raising his glass, “also, to family and friends!” Georgia, it seemed, had priority to family and friends. As we clinked our glasses together—the ringing sound of crystal inconspicuously absent—he enthusiastically told me to “bolomde!” meaning I was required to down the champagne. Eyes watery from the sting of carbonation, I smiled to show him that I was, in fact, a man and did not need to sip my drink like a child (like I normally do) on this special occasion.

“GILOTSAV AKHALTZELS! (HAPPY NEW YEARS!),” yelled my host mom who, at once, came barraging into the room with enough energy to power all of ROG for the entire winter. As she threw candy and coins into the air (part of their tradition), the coins and candy landed in all the food and drink on the table. While carefully picking out a 10tetri coin from my soup I realized that John would be arriving soon because he had told me that he would be stopping by after midnight. As 30-minutes, an hour, an hour and a half, and two hours elapsed, I text messaged John wondering if he had been robbed, fallen into a ditch, or was just passed out in the park (hopefully on a bench). “Where are you? My host family and I are waiting for you!” I wrote, and when he responded with, “have to stop by host uncle’s first!” I began to suspect that he would never arrive. Finally after waiting for three hours, I text messaged him to call me. The conversation at 3am went something like this:

Me: “Hey, what’s up? Where are you? I haven’t really even started to party because I’ve been waiting for you to get here!”
John: “SLEEP! SLEEP! SLEEP!”
::click::

John, it seemed, at 3am had retired for the night—weak. I later found out that John and his host uncle, Irakli, had made it about 80% to my house, and, having made it all the way to the large Christmas tree in the park, they decided it was too far to make it the rest of the way and turned around. As they say, though, “the party must go on” and indeed it did. After the memorable phone call from John, I decided that, at 3am, I was definitely not having enough fun, and my host dad and I started to toast and taste the cognac that his factory made. Half a bottle of cognac tasting and toasting later, I suddenly discovered that the party had started, and I was being urged by my host brother to go out with his friends.

The tradition in Georgia on New Year’s is to go visit family and friend’s houses sometime during the 24-hours of January 1. Not before, not after, but only on January 1 when everyone has a big supra table set with the same food in every house. As everyone house-hops, you are required to throw candy and money into the air as you walk in (for reasons still unknown to me), and the first person to walk into your home as a guest is said to have good luck for the rest of the year. The first person to walk into my host family’s house was a jagged-toothed, short, skinny, bug-eyed man—though I later found out that he is only 20 years old—named Zaliko. Zaliko was a good family friend and an apparent genius on all things Georgian, and when speaking to me he couldn’t help but talk to me like I was mentally retarded, which, incidentally, gave me the sudden urge to give him a superhero judo-chop (luckily for him, though, I abstained). Upon hearing that I had never read “The Man in the Tiger Skin,” he gasped in horror—his hand covering his mouth as if he would vomit—and proceeded to explain the significance of the only famous novel ever written by a Georgian during the Georgian golden age (I think it was in the 13th century). “This epic story,” he tried to explain while his voice came out in a drunken slur, “is the greatest love story of all time!” “Zaliko—you miserable old man—why are you lecturing me on New Year’s, and what do you know about love?” is what I wanted to ask, but instead I sat there and patiently listened to him rant for 30-minutes. This was like a flashback of that wretched epiphonous train ride home from the Halloween Party, and because of that I had to excuse myself to go out with my host brother and all of his friends. “Your knowledge on Georgian culture has educated me,” I reassured him before I left, “but I really, really need to go.”

As my host brother snatched the bottle of cognac off the table with his rough hands, he threw his heavy arm around my shoulders and excitedly explained that we would be having some real fun now. As we stopped by his first friends house the mood was calm—too calm. I was around a group of energized 20-21 year olds, but when we arrived at his friend’s house the mood became solemn. “What’s going on?” I asked my host brother completely confused, “why isn’t everyone pumped up anymore?” Suddenly, Turkish rap music began to blast from the other room, and at once my host brother and his friends began to bounce their heads in unison like bobble head figures lined up on a dashboard. “This song is so cool,” my host brother said while giving me the thumbs up, “it’s his latest hit!” Even though I wasn’t sure who “he” and his latest hit were, I was happy to tolerate horrible music if that was what it took to get everyone excited. As we continued to hop around from one friend’s house to the next—taking a break from the distinctive multicultural music in transit—the night progressively became blurrier. Was it 6am? Maybe 7am? Either way I ended up on someone's couch by the end of the night...

Early that morning at 8am my host brother and I trekked back to our house, and as I crawled into the warmth of my bed and stared up at the ceiling examining the dark water-stained mark riveting across the off-white plaster, I realized that I had a lot of fun that night. John never made it to my house that night or later that day because he needed to “SLEEP! SLEEP! SLEEP!” but maybe it was better that way.

-The way I imagine John SLEEP-SLEEP-SLEEPING!


Even without John’s presence, I had an adventurous night on the town being the guest of many Georgians that I had never met before. Yes, I just might be the best PCV ever for reaching out to Georgians on my day off, but because I am a superhero cultural ambassador it is my sworn duty (literally) to reach out to Georgians all the time. It can be hard, sometimes blurry, intense, and even stressful at times, but it can also be rewarding. New Year’s in ROG was something fierce!

Ukraine Vacation Part 2: Kiev

My enthusiasm was vindicated upon our arrival in Kiev. The city glittered with modern amenities and it was hard to imagine that this was a Peace Corps country. As we drove from the airport to the city center (a distance of 50km) our taxi sped onto the five-lane freeway and I was astonished. “Where am I?” I asked completely mesmerized to Laura who was uncomfortably wedged between Matt and I, and as we silently looked out at the nighttime suburban landscape it was hard to recall where we had really come to. The highway was paved smooth with streetlights lining the expansive road, and as we drove past large apartment blocks it looked like we had accidentally landed in a western European suburb. New condominium and apartment buildings rose wildly up from the ground like kudzu, and on either side of the highway the golden arches seemed like the friendly eyebrows of our long lost friend Ronald. “Drive through open 24 hours,” they read, and even though I never ate McDonalds in the states, the soft neon lights seemed to be calling out to me seductively saying, “eat me.” “Ok,” I silently mouthed completely hypnotized, “I’ll have a hamburger happy meal.” It was amazing to take in the newly built brick and stucco buildings that did not have clotheslines decorating the balconies, and peaking into one apartment window I observed that all the sockets of a light fixture were filled with working light bulbs. Missing were the Georgian patchwork apartments with crumbling exterior concrete walls, and in its placed were newly painted buildings that looked as if they would still stand even after a violent earthquake.

One expat living in Tbilisi remarked that Tbilisi looked like “someone just dropped it,” but Kiev was, comparatively speaking, a huge contrast. Instead it looked as if someone had taken their time delicately carving each stone in the cobblestone streets, dexterously sculpting each architectural detail, and masterfully chiseling each perfectly shaped spire that accented many of its buildings. It was hard to imagine how there could be such huge difference between Tbilisi and Kiev, but when Laura commented that ROG had experienced two civil wars it was clear that that was the x-factor in the formula to explain the aesthetic discrepancy between Ukraine and ROG.

As described in the Lonely Planet Ukraine book, Kiev is like “a big shopping mall.” This—to your liking or disliking—is a very good assessment of this magnificent metropolis, and on our first excursion I felt that nothing could calm down my giddiness. I felt as if I had shot caffeine into my veins with a syringe like a die-hard heroine addict—my heart beating at an unhealthy rate—and that the only way to calm down was to stop in every well-inventoried store (there’s no such thing as inventory in ROG) and eat at every restaurant that had everything it displayed on their menus (again, menus are just for show in ROG). Entering every store and restaurant, I was amazed at the service and the way the interiors were organized. It was easy to browse through these stores because the sales representatives didn’t hound you as if you were a thief or a sexy piece of meat, and therefore I was not forced to do the human helicopter—quickly thrusting my arms outward—to physically demonstrate the boundaries of my personal space. Instead, they respected my space by allowing me to browse through the store, and at cafes and restaurants the waiters and waitresses periodically came back with a smile to see if they could get us anything else to make our meal just that much more enjoyable.

Perhaps the highlight—though pathetic it may be—was when John and I made a 2AM trip to the 24-hour grocery store. As we entered its well-lit interior we were star struck. As our eyes wildly darted around the store John started to whimper and get limp in the knees, while I started to hyperventilate and involuntarily convulse. Seeing this magnificent piece of real estate filled with all the goods that we could ever want was—in all seriousness—like winning the lottery. I felt as if at any minute we would fall to our knees as colorful confetti wildly rained down on us and a disco ball glittered in radiant glory, but as we grabbed grocery baskets and nothing happened I was brought back to reality. “I don’t understand,” I breathlessly told John, “how does something like this exist in a Peace Corps country?” There would be many instances where I would say those words during my trip through Ukraine, and even now I still wonder what a Peace Corps Ukraine volunteers experience is like compared to my experience in ROG. That, however, was not the only reason for our shock. The grocery store was situated next to a very hip and happening club, and the only people in the grocery store were young, beautiful, and well-dressed people. “Ukrainians are hot,” I said with John nodding in agreement, “I mean, look at them!” Standing next to them I felt as if I was wearing a fat suit and my name was Helga. The myth was true—Ukrainians are all hot.

-John is confused by the brilliance that is Kiev:


Our time in Kiev was spent walking around in the blistering cold—though usually sunny—and taking in all the glory of a metropolis blanketed in snow and shielded with ice. Because I promised John that I would not complain about the cold in Kiev, it was hard to find other things to concentrate on. Laura and I had developed a plan to fight off the cold—walk at a breakneck pace to keep warm. This strategy initially worked; however, it eventually proved to not be a foolproof plan because we were walking faster than the rest of the group, and we found that we had to momentarily stop for them to catch up. During this time of immobility, we were, once again, paralyzed by the cold, but as our toes went from piercing pain to absolute numbness, Laura and I discovered that staying warm was not the strategy to have, but, rather, it would be easier to take in Kiev’s urban beauty while being completely numb. Some might call this dangerous, stupid, or even “frostbite retardation”; we called it “living on the edge.”

Kiev’s many cobblestone streets were lined with buildings dating from even before the Stalinist era (a miracle because most of Kiev was destroyed during WWII), and elaborate medieval orthodox churches sporadically dotted the cityscape. These ornate orthodox churches had a completely different architectural design than that known in Georgia, and instead of octagonal shaped towers, their exteriors were colorfully painted using stucco instead of brick. When covered with snow, these churches that resembled colorful Easter eggs and were bedecked with gold-plated onion domes that looked like dollops of whipped cream. After spending a couple of days observing the churches and many of the older parts of Kiev, it seemed that Ukraine—or perhaps just Kiev—was heavily influenced by Russia. Our guide, linguistic expert, and my site mate, John Appling, pointed out that even one of the major buildings in the middle of Kiev was a perfect example of Stalinist architecture because it looked as if it was a smaller replica of the Seven Sister Towers in Moscow. Indeed, even some of the churches in Kiev—with enough Ukrainian spirits—looked like St. Basils Cathedral in Moscow.

-the building that looked like the seven sister towers:


A picture summary of Kiev during the daytime:

-John looking holy in church:

-We celebrate making it to Kiev:

-Me in front of a big statue in Kiev (there's one similar to this one in Tbilisi):

-Me looking like a north korean general:

-one of the buildings at the cave monestary:

-Group pic at cave monestary compound:

-matt and I freezing at the monestary:

-Rebecca, Matt, Laura and me in a big square:

-outdoor artisan market in Kiev:

-Matt, laura, and me on top of the hill looking over Kiev:



Independence Square was much larger than Freedom Square and was a central hub point for all of the 2.5 million Kievians, and, as evident by a map of Kiev, all roads lead to Independence Square. Like Rustaveli Street (in Tbilisi), the central road that goes through Independence Square also closes on weekends to allow pedestrian traffic. Absent were the hundreds of beggars and gypsies in ROG, and this could be due to the extremely cold weather or to simple economics. As Laura’s economic knowledge of the art of begging goes, “why would you beg for coins here when they’re worth a fraction of what the Georgian currency is worth?” Indeed, why would you?

As we slowly strolled down the main street of Kiev on Orthodox Christmas night, the main road was flooded with Kievians that were equally excited to be there. Our slow and timely Georgian pace had Kievians quickly speeding past us, and in the midst of all this enthusiastic chaos we slowly took in our surroundings. Sapphire-blue, honey-yellow, effulgent-white, and crimson-red Christmas lights illuminated the streets, pedestrians, and buildings in an eerie glittery glow. As the snow fell from the night sky, they reflected the different warm hues of the lights around us, and it seemed as if millions of iridescent fireflies were slowly descending from the midnight blue sky, and looking past all this, the buildings of Kiev seemed to tower miles above us.

Picture summary of Kiev at night:
-Independence Square at night:

-The Sears equivalent in Kiev:


One of the things that I was most surprised about in Kiev was that everyone was dressed well. Unlike Georgia where black rules, older Kievians dressed as if they were on their way to go to a fine restaurant, while younger Kievians dressed in the latest European fashion trends. There was no uniformity here, and that is what I found most refreshing. As hulking, walrus-like women—walking with their hips first—strutted past us in lustrous fur coats that went down to their ankles—the fur clinging to every hilly curve on their mountainous frames—their fluffy shapkas gently sat on their heads like jeweled crowns. The men were also dressed drastically different from Georgians. Instead of knock-off Adidas tracksuits, here men dressed in suits and overcoats that looked, well, new.

Our time in Kiev was spent looking at the sites and slowly walking to and from places of interest, but the most memorable part of the trip was sitting in the rented apartment and relaxing every night. In Kiev it gets dark at around 4pm, and because of this we would usually be back at the apartment by 5-6pm and call it a night. As we sipped on coffee and tea—the TV blaring the latest musical hits on Ukraine music television—we all sat in the warm, cozy, and modest apartment and relaxed. The fact that the apartment was heated made it that much more luxurious to us, and even though we were not “living it up” in Kiev as many tourists would have probably done, it did not upset us one bit. More importantly, we were not huddling in a tight knit circle around a wood burning stove feverishly rubbing our hands together, or drinking tea at 10pm to stay warm (not for the caffeine to stay awake), but, instead, we were a comfortable five, six, even ten feet apart enjoying each other’s company.

Ukraine Vacation Part 1

Georgian hosts, with their charming “hospitality,” have a way of holding onto a guest even when the guest is clearly stating, to the bubbling pot of motherly host-love, that they have had enough. Yes, just like a good Georgian host, ROG, with its ample bosom of love and hospitality, would not let Laura, John, Matt, Rebecca, and myself go from its rough, callused exterior without a fight. “Come here so I can suffocate you in my voluminous body,” ROG seemed to say, but all of us had had enough of ROG and were determined to break away from the grips of her meaty hands.

The first day of our journey begins not in Ukraine, but in Tbilisi International Airport. Because our flight was scheduled to leave at 2:30PM (Georgian time) we arrived at the airport two hours early to make sure that we would not have any problems missing the flight. We were, of course, unprepared for what was about to happen. As we searched the different check-in counters to see where we could check-in our massive backpacks that we were all hauling on our weather-beaten bodies, we noticed that none of the displays indicated our flight. Moscow, Tel Aviv, Amsterdam, London, Frankfurt; all the destinations teased us of places where we could be instead of at the smoky Tbilisi International Airport. As we sat upstairs in the waiting area to wait for the check-in counter to open, we suddenly heard a Georgian announcement with the word “Kyev” conspicuously in it, and when, all of a sudden, we heard the English announcement we were all devastated. “The flight from Kyev has been delayed until 4PM,” the announcer absentmindedly stated. “Ok, so we’re just a little early,” Laura noted, “at least we’re not late!” Always the optimist, Laura was hopeful that nothing else would happen. This was, of course, not the case at all. “The flight from Kyev has been delayed until 5PM,” “The flight from Kyev has been delayed until 6PM,” “The flight from Kyev has been delayed until 7PM,” the announcer taunted us each hour by the compounding bad news. “We’re never going to leave this place,” I groaned with dread, and as if accepting defeat everyone just sat in silence instead of answering me in an upbeat tone.

Finally, the intercom announced that the flight would be arriving in an hour, and with that we all went to check our bags in. One by one we went through line, when, all of a sudden, something else went wrong. “That guy just wrote down my name as Mrs. John Appling,” Laura said with a tinge of anxiety in her voice. “Don’t worry,” I said reassuring her, “we’re going to Kyev now, what could possibly go wrong?” Ends up that a lot could go wrong. Not only were John and Laura now married without their knowledge, but also the travel agency that we bought our tickets from had given John two tickets and neglected to write a ticket with Laura’s name on it. It was a classic catch-22 where the airline that booked the ticket and the airline that we were flying on couldn’t fix the problem. “Well, we didn’t book the ticket so we can’t really change the name on it,” one airline said. “If we were the ones that were flying you guys to your destination we could fix it,” the other said with a shrug. This, of course, was all happening in Russian (This would be the typical format of conversation with foreigners for the rest of the trip—me standing next to John telling him to tell the person what I was saying) “This is unacceptable!” I yelled at John, “we are their customers, they need to fix this problem because it is their problem!” Laura (who by this time was in near tears) nodded her head in agreement while Matt and Rebecca stood behind us in silence. Finally, one of the airline officials looked at me directly and said, “we understand but we cannot fix it,” in English. Thinking this entire time that my bitching and moaning was acceptable because it was directed towards John, and therefore indirectly relayed to the person via the “John Appling translation filter,” I was suddenly incredibly embarrassed. “Holy crap,” I said as we left their office, my face red with embarrassment, “why didn't you tell me he spoke English!”

Soon we all came to the consensus that Laura would just have to buy a new ticket (at the same price she bought her previous ticket), and that we would get the travel agency to give her a refund (which ended up being no problem at all). With our bags now checked in we cheerfully walked up the steps to the passport check. As everyone went through one-by-one without any problems, me—with my amazing luck—got stuck with the customs lady from Georgian Passport-Check Hell. “You are American?” she suspiciously asked, her eyes darting from my passport to my face for confirmation. “Yup, American,” I responded, and I even flashed her an “American” smile (teeth just whitened!) to confirm that I was, in fact, an American. As she flipped through the passport over and over again—briefly staring at my Georgian visa—she looked up at me again with escalated distrust. I could read from her raised eyebrow; her pinned back hair that was slowly pulling her hair out of her flakey scalp; the hair growing out of her large facial mole; and from her squinted eyes that she would not take my word for it. “This Georgian visa,” she showed me as if I had never seen it before, “who wrote in the dates and approved it?” “The Georgian embassy in DC,” I answered confidently, “I work here as a Peace Corps volunteer—for free,” is what I really wanted to say, but instead I said, “I work here as a Peace Corps volunteer.”

“The dates on this,” she pointed with her fingers nail so sharp I was sure she would stab her finger through my passport, “it is written sloppily.” “Yea, well, that’s Georgians for you!” I wanted to say, but instead I sucked it up and told her I was sorry, hoping that would suffice—it was not enough. “You need a new visa,” she demanded, and as I glared at her I swore that I saw horns rise through her greasy and unwashed hair. “I don’t need a visa,” I desperately explained to this satanic customs lady, “no one needs a visa anymore to come visit Georgia.” As she whispered something to her boss—and as I sat there staring off into space for two minutes—she finally slammed her passport stamp in an open space and I passed through the gates. “Next time,” she warned, “get it fixed!”

As we boarded the plane—Laura and I sitting next to each other—we were both ecstatic to leave the purgatory known as ROG and the hell known as Tbilisi International Airport. Next stop, Paradise!

Update

So my superhero adventures lead me next to Ukraine, and I will be back in mid-January. I have posted three entries just now (with pictures), and they cover christmas and pre-new years. I'll post the new years adventure entry when I return from Ukraine, so until then PEACE OUT!

HOLLA~!

Yuta

Explosively ringing in the New Year (part une)

Living in a country that goes by the schedule of an orthodox Christmas is just not the same. Instead of celebrating Christmas on December 25, everything here is timed to celebrate Christmas on January 7. Even then, the decorations and preparations are more for New Years than for Christmas, and this is evident with the armies of psychotic children lighting up fireworks and setting them off all over town at random. Walking to work with random explosions going off all around me, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve been transplanted to Northern Ireland when the IRA was actively rigging everything with explosives. The first incident happened as I strolled along one of the main streets when a little boy—no older than 10—came sprinting towards my direction screaming, and as I shrugged it off as yet another child-like tick, a firecracker exploded just three feet to my right. A high pitched ringing pursued in my right ear for an hour afterwards, and I vowed that if I ever saw this five-foot punk I would sprint after him, hurl my large body onto his, and take him to the police on charges of attempted murder of a superhero. The catch, though, is that after that first incident, this has happened to me numerous times and I don't think I could ever hunt down all of the kids that have plotted to permanently destroy my hearing. I have since found out that the firecracker attacks are nothing personal, but instead they are used as a cultural tool to ring in the New Year.

“In Georgia, for New Years you make as much noise as possible.” John’s tutor recently informed him that it would be “un-Georgian” to not make noise like it was an MTV Spring Break in Cancun. John’s incredibly nationalist tutor made the point many times that, in addition to the traditions of drinking, eating and greeting people, it is a Georgian’s national duty to celebrate and ring in the New Year by being obnoxious. I suppose this highlights the differences between our cultures and theirs. In America, we patriotically ring in the new year by fiercely downing cocktails and beers before midnight, and as the countdown clock hits zero it is purely American to pop the cork on an expensive bottle of champagne and to down it as fast as humanly possible while involuntarily shaking your head to deal with the carbonation sting. By kissing the closest person next to you, it shows the American hippie culture of free love, and, finally, what better way to show your red-white-and blue pride than to top a rough night of partying and drinking off than with a mimosa or a Blood-Mary with pancakes or waffles thickly layered with butter in the morning to help cope with an intense hangover.

In the coming days—no, months—to New Years, Batumi has seemed to be experiencing a child-led coup. All the little convenient stores began to sell firecrackers, and because these miniature arms dealers have no legal age limit for these insane devices (ticking time bombs, if you will), bored children have been snatching them by the hundreds. At the beginning of December when the random explosions started, I thought that the crime rate had just dramatically increased in Batumi, but when I asked my counterpart about all the noise I was told that it was the sound of New Years approaching. “Don’t you have an age limit for people to buy firecrackers?” I asked my host sister, but when she shrugged it was clear that this prepubescent revolution would persist—and perhaps increase in intensity—the closer we got to New Years. All the chaotic noise was a huge contrast to the colorful Christmas trees, warm weather, and bright fountains.

One afternoon for lunch, I sat in the park eating boloki (sweet bread) and took in my surroundings. There was a group of about fifteen kids that were wildly running around, as if their heads had been chopped off chucking firecrackers at each other while laughing, and as one child’s leg exploded—though regretfully still intact—I started to see things a little differently. I imagined these children wearing forest green army clothes, red bandanas tightly wrapped around their tiny skulls, strategically scurrying from tree to tree. The playground became a battleground, and as they hurled one firecracker grenade after another, smoke, dirt, and debris seemed to fly wildly in the air. These children, in my mind, were like little guerilla fighters that were terrifying the adults of Batumi. No, they were terrorizing ROG as a whole! As I talked about this problem at the Christmas gathering in Tbilisi, the majority of the TEFL volunteers laughed at my claim that I was slowly losing my hearing. “Where have you been?” one volunteer asked me in bewilderment. Apparently I was out of the loop with the child-led coup. “Well, in my class these psychotic kids light firecrackers during class,” one volunteer explained in a seemingly boastful tone. It seemed that at first glance ROG was experiencing a revolution, perhaps named the Diaper Revolution, and was a revolution lead by rogue boys incapable of even heating a can of soup.

Aside from all the chaos, though, New Years seems to be getting everyone excited. “There will be endless amounts of food and drinks,” my host mom said with a wink, “and you’ll be in pain for days because you’ll be so stuffed!” As she shared her excitement for the New Year with me—her eyes were wide with fanatic enthusiasm at the opportunity to share Georgian culture—I had trouble building up the same enthusiasm and excitement that she had. “So are there lots of pretty fireworks and champagne?” I asked eagerly, but when she looked at me with a puzzled look on her face I knew that the answer was no. “No,” my host sister later explained, “New Years isn’t like it is in other countries, we drink lots of wine and the feast starts at midnight.” “What about dancing, clubs, dressing up, and going out with friends?” I asked, but when she too looked at me puzzled I didn’t bother to press the issue any further.

In ROG where many things are different, New Years is no exception. New Years here is more about being with family and making a lot of noise, and at 10:35pm on New Years Eve my family is still feverishly chopping, roasting, steaming, boiling, and cooking up a storm. This preparation has been going on for two days now, and my host-dad has even brought home bottles and bottles of vodka, cognac, and wine from the wine factory that he is the technical director of in preparation. In America where it is all about going to the biggest party with the most booze, here it is about a 24-hour celebration involving an unreasonable amount of food, lots of family, and a flood of guests—oh yea, and also a lot of noise. The food preparation has spilt into the spare bedroom, and right now there are stacks and stacks of vegetables, meat, bread, and other edibles on every available surface. Earlier today as my hand was lodged up a duck’s butt that we were preparing, I had an epiphany. I am being a dutiful PCV by culturally immersing myself, but as I anally probed that duck it hit me that I did not even want to eat all the food that was being prepared. Instead, I thought about how I would rather spend my New Years at some big club popping some Moet Chandon with a bunch of friends and seeing fireworks—not just hearing them—in a big open space. And when the countdown clock hits zero I thought about how great it would be to hear the traditional New Years song while shiny metallic confetti falls on everyone reflecting the light like millions of tiny mirrors. “Wouldn’t it be great,” I thought, “to be able to experience all that this year?” But as I think about where I am and what I’m doing I realize it is just homesickness hitting me again, and that, in fact, I’m glad to be here. Instead of confetti raining down on me while I pop a bottle of champagne, this year I’ll be sitting at a large table surrounded by my host family while we all scream like banshees to ring in the New Year because, after all, that is the Georgian thing to do. And in all the chaos that is the Georgian New Year, I’ll be at a large table that will be overflowing with traditional Georgian food, homemade wine, vodka, and cognac while raising my glass with everyone to toast to Georgia, to family, to friendship, to love, to peace, and, of course, to superheroes.

-My host family and I ringing in the New Year:

Christmas in the R-O-G

Christmas in the capital was, to say the least, interesting. It was a mixture of holiday cheer, holiday depression, and even holiday reflection, and as I spent my time in three different households I discovered the dangers of bad combinations. Combining like six cats in one bedroom; a couple of bottles of wine with an emotional person clinging to their mobile phone; and nearly five hundred people in a train station with a drowsy and grumpy traveler all proved to be bad combinations in retrospect. And as I sit here now writing this entry, I can’t help but think about whether or not this weekend was hilarious and entertaining or just sad. Some parts were definitely fun, but other times it was a little sad to see people display their rawest emotions. Before I start, I want to apologize in advance if the entry jumps around from different places and the flow of the writing is bad.

Arriving in Tbilisi on Friday afternoon, I was going to spend the night at an expat’s house with one of my good friends Eve. While determining which house to cold call to see if we could stay the night, we looked down the list of expats who had agreed to have PCVs come stay with them during weekends. “MUST LIKE KIDS AND RUSSIANS,” one expat specified, “NON-SMOKERS ONLY!” At first glance it was like sifting through a personals ad, and as I selectively looked through each host’s prerequisites I had a hard time determining which place would be the best to stay at. “Well,” one volunteer said, “it’s all about location, you know? You don't want to be stuck going to some place that is really far away from everything!” After talking to that particular volunteer I also felt like it was like searching for a prime piece of real estate. The funny thing, though, was that this volunteer failed to realize that any place that we were invited to stay at would be better—hands down—to our living situation at our sites. “These people are expats,” I reminded the volunteer, “they get paid an American salary and have maids, drivers, and security officers—I think location is a secondary concern.” Finally, I called and asked a very nice lady working at the US Embassy if we could stay at her house for one night, but before she agreed she asked me if I liked cats—a lot of cats, that is.

Eve and I are both cat lovers (I also like dogs too, so I guess I’m an equal opportunity pet-lover—yea yuh), and so the thought of being able to pet cats, see cats, and even lay next to one was an enticing thought. Because the Peace Corps Medical Officer warns us that cats, dogs, and other animals here lack what in the western world is known as “rabies” shots, we are advised not to pet any animal and so we were ecstatic at the thought of being around cats that were a) fixed and b) had their rabies shots.

As we pulled up to the off-white house, I couldn’t believe my eyes at the enormous house I was looking at. “No,” I explained to the driver, “are you sure this is the right address?” When he nodded and demanded five lari I knew that this was the end of the road, and so we got out and timidly walked up to the door. As the Georgian housekeeper answered the door, we walked into an immaculate interior that was centrally heated. “I hope you like cats,” the hostess said as she came down the stairs to greet us. As Eve and I looked around the house, we scanned every crevice, seat surface, and heating vent for any sign of cats, but we could not find any in sight. Soon after dinner, though, we found out that there was no shortage of cats in this house.

“Good night,” I said to Eve, and as I pulled the covers over my head I heard the door creak open. Both excited and nervous, I poked my head out of my covers to see if the cats had entered. “They’re here,” Eve whispered, and as I looked down I saw the six cats regally march into the room. One by one they jumped from Eve’s bed, to the furniture, to my bed, to the floor, to Eve’s bed, to my bed, and for about two hours the cats seemed to be freaking out. “I think they’re drunk or on speed,” I whispered to Eve, but as she shook her head I knew that I was wrong. “Ok,” I admitted, “so alcohol is a downer and speed is an upper, so I guess they can’t be on both.” At last when they finally calmed down, one by one the cats climbed up onto my bed. As I contorted my body so that they would be comfortable, I soon found myself curled up in a fetal position on the top half of a twin-size bed. Maybe it was the lack of affection in my life, or maybe it’s just that I miss cats a lot, but for the entire night I kept shifting my body so that these six cats would be comfortable. When I finally woke up I felt like my back had gone through some medieval torture device, one, I imagined, where you’re folded in half and hit repeatedly in the back with a stick.

Christmas eve was first spent at the Peace Corps administrative officer’s (Adam) house where his son was having his birthday party, and then at another expat’s house where a bunch of PCVs were house sitting. At Adam’s house we roasted hot dogs in a giant bonfire in his yard, ate lots of chocolate, chocolate cake, and helped celebrate his son’s birthday. Seeing his son get excited over his presents and birthday was fun, and I thought back to how excited I used to get over birthdays and Christmas every year when I was a kid. As the night progressed he kept eagerly asking his dad if there were “more gifts,” and when it came time to open his presents his little sisters fervently ripped his presents open for him. “Do they know it’s his birthday and not theirs?” I asked Eve, but before she had a chance to answer it became clear that they were not aware of this fact when—during the birthday song—his sisters blew out his candles for him.

-Eve and I in front of the bonfire:

-Hannah and I in front of the Christmas tree:

-Group picture in Adam’s kitchen:


Later that night, we rushed to get home to meet the volunteers who didn’t attend Adam’s son’s birthday party because they wanted to prepare their own meal instead. Little did we know that we would be walking into an emotional party where the cook was bawling her eyes out because of a bad mixture of homesickness and wine. “Yuta,” Emily said while she loosely held her wine glass and tears rolled down her cheeks, “please eat some of my lasagna and tell me if it’s good…it means a lot to me because I cooked it for you guys!” As we walked up to the dining table, we saw that there had been some drinking going on, and that, my friends, is a horrible combination with the holiday season. “Why is she crying?” I asked Erin. “Oh, you know Emily, whenever she has a little to drink she just breaks down into tears,” Erin told me, and as we saw Emily strut by with her lips pouting, I knew that she had probably finished off an entire bottle by herself.

Later on in the night, as Emily reemerged from her room—eyes swollen—she came in to make sure that I had, in fact, tasted her lasagna. “Delicious,” I reassured her, “I even wanted seconds, and that’s saying a lot because it’s made from dairy!” Because it was the holiday and I wanted everyone to be cheerful instead of reflective and depressed, I suggested that Emily listen to some gangster rap to get her pumped up. “Yea!” she said with newfound enthusiasm, and as she plugged her ipod into the speaker device she took off her “sad” face and put on her “street” face. “YOU BITCHES DON'T KNOW ME!” she emphatically rapped, “BEE-AH! BEE-AH!” The moment the music started Emily had turned into a ghetto superstar and there was no stopping her, and in the wise words of my site mate John Appling, if you can’t beat them, join them. Join her we did.

Soon the kitchen turned into a dance club where we rapped and danced to great artists such as Ludacris, Jay-Z, Camron, Fabolous, and Outkast. As we listened to these lyrical geniuses preach about pimps, prostitutes, sex and drugs, it proved to be a Christmas tradition that none of us had ever experienced. Here is a picture summary of the event:

-Emily raps her emotions away:

-I dance with Erin and Laura in my pajamas:

-Erin and Emily getting into it:

Early on Christmas day I went to the train station to go back to my site because I needed to be at the office on Monday. Upon arrival, though, I found that the train station was in total anarchy and that getting to the front of the line was a nightmare. There are many strategies that I have learned are necessary to buy a ticket here in ROG. There is one maneuver that I have named “the credit card,” and this involves a person to go to the front of the line—not by waiting patiently from the back—and sliding in front of the person at the front from their right or left side. Veterans and ninjas are the only ones capable of pulling off this swift and calculated movement, and because I had a fifty-pound backpack on my back I did not possess the finesse necessary to do it. Another maneuver commonly used is called “the posse,” where a group of Georgian men will push to the front with all their might, and by brute force will knock away any man, woman, child or crippled human being. This tactic is most effective when you have a policeman as a member of your posse; however, because I was lacking in finesse or a spare policeman friend, I instead stood patiently at the very back of the line as a crowd of uncharacteristically wild and competitive Georgians vied for the last few tickets to Batumi. By the time I got to the front, all the tickets to Batumi were sold out for the day and I found myself buying a ticket for the following day instead. Christmas, it seemed, would be spent in Tbilisi, and I felt good that it wasn't my conscious choice to ditch work on Monday to stay for Christmas. “It is out of my control,” I reassuringly told myself, “nope, nothing I could do about it!”

Later that day, a couple of PCVs and I went back to Adam’s for the white elephant gift exchange where I secured myself four mach 3 razors. It was nice to spend time with other expats and PCVs in one place, and at one point it even snowed! All the PCVs that were from the south sprinted outside to take in the view, and as the PCVs from the north yawned at such common developments, we were childishly sticking out our tongues to try to catch snowflakes and taking pictures of us playing in the snow. Overall the event was fun and can best be explained through pictures, so enjoy!

-Eve and I in the snow:

-The gifts for the gift exchange (yes, one is wrapped in a sock):

-PCVs eagerly opening gifts:

-Tbilisi covered in snow:

-The feast:

-PCVs lounging:


When we returned that night to the expat’s house that some of us were staying at, it was also a very relaxed atmosphere. Even in ROG, the mood for Christmas is the same as it is in America, and as we all sat around the kitchen table while listening to Christmas music and eating junk food, we kept glancing down at our mobile phones in anticipation of a call from back home. One-by-one the phones started to ring, and as the each person grabbed their phone and ran into the other room an odd feeling lingered in the air. Here we were all gathered to celebrate Christmas together, but we couldn’t shake off the feeling that we were all missing something back home. As each person surfaced from his or her room, their eyes swollen and noses still running (except me, I don't cry), no one really knew what to say, and I even found that in an unconventional moment that I was also speechless. Unable and unwilling to talk about how we missed our family and friends, we instead started to play cards. As I held my hand of cards and stuffed my face with peanut m&m’s, I thought about what I got for Christmas this year—four mach 3 razors at the gift exchange and cologne that I purchased for myself. Having hot water, electricity, an abundance of food, and being in the company of great friends and chocolate, though, who needs much else right now?

-Laura and I:

-Laura, me, and Lee:

Robbed!

On a cold and dreary Saturday at approximately 8:30pm, I decided that I needed to get out of the house or else I would go insane. As I contemplated where to go, I mentally made a list of the possible places that were still open at that hour: John’s house, the store, the internet café, and possibly the Boulevard. “John’s house,” I silently contemplated first, but as I thought about the last time I called him up I had a moment of hesitation. The other day when I called John up, I heard opera blaring in the background—a woman screaming at the top of her lungs—while I tried to talk to him. Finally growing impatient with the murderous noise in the background, I asked, “What the hell are you listening to?” and as John chuckled, he said with an air of amusement, “opera, but I think the acoustics get messed up when you hear it over the phone.” Still, though, I was desperate to get out of the house and called up John to try and persuade him to hang out. “Come on,” I said, “let’s watch a movie or something,” but when he said he was tired and was just going to read on a Saturday night I decided to just go to the internet café to see if I could catch any of my friends online. That decision, my friends, would be the beginning of a long chain of unfortunate events.

“It’s kind of late,” my host family warned me, “why do you need to go to the internet café right now?” Unable to say in Georgian that if I didn’t get out and do something I might resort to eating woodchips, I just told them that I had work to do at 8:30pm on a Saturday night. With one lari and my mobile phone being my only possessions when I left the house, I felt fairly safe that even if I were mugged I wouldn’t really be losing anything. “Caution is for chumps,” I thought as I walked the one block to the internet café. As I approached the internet café, it was evident that this particular internet café was a local boys hang out. With young, unemployed, and dirty teenagers filling up the entire place, I felt that because I was so close to home, and because it was in the neighborhood I lived in, I was safe. Inside it was filled with hazy smoke that clung to everything, and as the young men screamed and yelled at each other, I felt that because of their short attention span I would easily blend in and be forgotten alongside the posters of the famous soccer players hung on the walls. As with any place frequented by teenage boys, the internet café was filthy—a universal trait, it seems, of every teenager. The keys on the keyboards would momentarily get stuck because of spilt sugar drinks, cigarette butts were littered all throughout the individual cubicles, and I even caught a glimpse of a cockroach darting across the floor. The place exuded class.

While checking my email and signing on to a chat program, I had a phone call from my friend Sue who was medically separated from the Peace Corps (though she will return in May) and is subsequently back in America. As I excitedly talked on the phone, I was, no doubt, being scanned and checked out by the mischievous thief who would soon rob me. “Ok, call me in an hour,” I told Sue, and as I put down my phone right next to my keyboard, a boy that was no older than sixteen came darting from behind me—hood covering his head—quickly grabbing my mobile phone, and sprinting out the door. “What the hell?” I thought, and as I sat there staring back and forth at the door and then to the empty spot where my mobile phone sat just a second ago, I silently waited for the culprit to come back. After a minute when he did not come waltzing back to me—smiling like an actor in a mentos commercial while carrying my mobile phone—I began to get worried. “I think I was just robbed,” I typed to my friend online, “but I’m not sure. I’m hoping that it was one of my host brother’s friends playing a joke on me.” As one minute elapsed, I came to the realization that, in fact, some punk kid had stolen the cheapest mobile phone available on the market from me. “Who does that?” I thought, and as I started to finally act, I quickly got up from my chair and announced to all the delinquents at the internet café that I needed to know who the boy was. “Listen to me,” I loudly announced with a quivering voice, “I need to know who that boy was.” When they all shrugged in a un-Oscar worthy performance, I started to panic. “O-M-G,” I thought, “that phone has all of my numbers in it!” As the panic started to set in, I told the patrons of the internet café that I didn’t mind of the thief kept my phone as long as I had my SIM card back with all of my numbers. This, of course, did not do any good, and I left the internet café feeling like my right hand had been stolen from me. Like a compass holds great importance for sailors exploring the ocean, my mobile phone held that much significance to me and without it I felt devastated.

Grief soon gave way to anger, and I quickly got up to march home and bitch to my host family about what had happened. “Peace out!” I typed to Emily whom I was chatting with, “I’m going to go solve this ridiculous problem!” Instead of freaking out like I normally would, I figured that the best strategy would be to keep a completely calm and collected façade in front of my host family and other Georgians—as if I was a veteran victim of robbery—to not worry them too much. As I opened the living room door, though, it was clear that things there were not right at the house either. My host dad and host cousin had been drinking for what I later found out to be four hours, and they were both completely toasted. “Whaaaaaat~?!” they both exclaimed in disbelief, “youuuu weeEErreee robbed?!” Their breath stank of a mixture of cheap vodka and expensive cognac, and as they spoke their Georgian slurred with a drunken drawl. “You’re a good boy,” my host father told me as he started to hug me with his gangly frame and kiss my forehead with his chapped lips, “have something to drink.” As my host cousin started a tirade on the greatness of their last name, I faced my host sister in panic over what happened. “You know what really pisses me off though?” I rhetorically asked my sister. “It’s that with gypsies, at least they ask you for money, but this kid…this kid, he just stole it from me! If he’d asked me for money I’d probably have given it to him!” Having told her the entire story and my two cents about the situation—and then subsequently translating it to every sober family member—the drunk host cousin took my hand and started to stumble down the stairs. “We’re going to find him,” he told me while his prominent nose pointed the way, “he’ll be easy to find because he’ll have your phone!” His natural sleuthing abilities and observation of the obvious were equivalent of a child discovering that sugar is sweet. “Do you even know what kind of phone I have?” I asked him, “and what makes you think that he’ll still be there? You are drunk, please go back to the room.” As I pleaded with the inebriated man, my host brother suddenly took my arm and walked with me to the internet café to plead with the people there to give back my phone.

Of course the phone and the SIM card were never returned, and I was without a mobile phone for four days. Being completely disconnected from the world was, put simply, really horrible. Some volunteers contacted John to make sure I was alive because I hadn’t returned their texts in days, and I later found out that Peace Corps would replace my phone so things were starting to look up. After I bought my new phone, though, I discovered that the charger that they gave me with the phone was for an English plug—not a standard European one—and when I went back to complain to get a European plug charger, they told me they didn’t have any left which was, I believe, a conspiracy against me (well, not really)! As if one bad event wasn’t enough for me in one week, though, later in the week I was nearly run over by a lunatic driver, and as I quickly jumped out of the way I slipped upon landing and violently fell into a ditch in the road. “Great,” I thought exasperated, “please let my leg be broken so I can go back to the states for a month.” By the end of the week I was exhausted and ready to go to Tbilisi for Christmas. With barely enough money for a train ticket, I was down in the dumps about how things were going and was ready to leave Batumi for a while.

To end on a positive note, I later used this negative experience as a means to get my writing class to think about social problems in ROG. The essay topic? “In the face of high unemployment, is it ethical to steal to survive? Even from a really nice, attractive, and witty Japanese/American man?” Well, ok, so really the topic was just “In the face of high unemployment, is it ethical to steal to survive?” but wouldn’t it have been hilarious if the prior really were the essay topic? If anything, this experience showed me that my host family shared my pain and really went out of their way to pacify the problem. Sure some people steal—in all countries there are thieves—and maybe it was out of desperation for survival that he needed to steal my phone, but in a country that has such high unemployment (60-70%) it’s great to see that even though the majority do not have jobs most do not resort to stealing.

New mobile number: +99595 56 14 60