forgotten things

bleeding hearts and soft jazz songs,
the bass hum moving up slopes
of sanguine sorrow, drifting long
through the winding smoke, elopes
with varied tongues in parley,
native and foreign gather
while those alone sip black tea,
waiting in wisps, they'd rather
be in love than tables for one,
but what carries through night air?
soft winds and a sliding tone.
song can the heart gently tear
and solve all that sorrow brings:
all turns to forgotten things.

The night began how most nights begin. Alone, somewhere. It doesn't matter where. The scene could have been New York, it could have been Moscow, it could have been Tokyo, it was Tbilisi. The bar served as a fortress, pushing out the cold of the night. Frost gathering on the outside sidewalks, couples walking down the alleys of the city, arm in arm; laughter floating across cobblestones while children played midnight games of soccer, using cars as goal posts. All this I observed, from one scene to the next, safe behind my glass window. On my side, there was a jazz band, some groups starting to gather, Americans here, Germans there, a couple of Georgians over there. Here, almost, it was like the Georgians were out of place. It's one part of town that you can feel, as an expat, a sense of belonging. Most of the people in this part of town were expats. And here, the alienation, the isolation… there becomes a sense of community among strangers. There develops an instant identity among those who are in completely alien surroundings, no matter where their existence before this country.

Well, I speak too early. There are the expats I speak of. The true travelers, the ones who will carry a knapsack into a new country and sit and share a smoke with anyone who will talk and listen, and there are those who carry hole houses to another country and live in a diplomatic bubble, never bothering to really get to know the country they're in*. Never bothering and never really caring. But the local game, the local whores, are always swept off their feet by the latter type. All the diamonds and glitter. Children always love diamonds and glitter, and who can blame them? They're shiny.

The former type, those are the bards of old. Find them, listen to them, be friends with them. A true traveler understands the importance of even the slightest of an acquaintance, there is a bed to sleep in, a warm meal, a beer, a cigarette. And in return, the same is offered, anywhere in the world. The traveler can be from any country, but they always are singularly the most hospitable and interesting of people, and almost always the most humble.

It was my birthday. I had no reason to be alone. I could have called someone to spend it with. But here I was, writing in the notebook, sipping on a beer, watching a thin Georgian lady sing songs in her strange accent. She had a beautiful voice, but English off her tongue made it sound as though she were singing underwater. I wondered what she sounded like singing in Georgian. I watched the smoke drift across the room in spirals, floating upwards. In the smoke I saw different places, different times. I saw friends I've left behind, friends I'll find again and friends I'll meet another day. There we were, arm in arm, laughing. Another image, me and a woman, basking in our time together, though it may be short, making one moment into an eternity, the smoke swirled trying to hold us together but the wind carrying us away.

Sometimes I prefer being alone to the company of others. Sometimes I like to hear the wandering of my thoughts, as though I weren't the only one around. And through these times, through the depths of winter in which I was surrounded only by people who couldn't speak English… there was the true loneliness, but also the true contemplation. The anvil is pain for the steel, but a sword is made. There are days where everything makes sense and there are days where nothing makes sense. And on those latter days, you can't help but to wonder if you've died or turned into a ghost and if anything you do really matters. People only seem to care on a superficial level, they smile, they ask you niceties, but underneath, there is no love, there is no true curiosity, they're only waiting for you to affirm their existence, while not really affirming yours. There is nothing. That's how you feel on those days anyway. Just wandering through a circus, where all the performers are giant, unsmiling marionettes, whispering and laughing as you turn your back towards them.

Secretly, maybe, I was wishing for a beautiful Georgian woman, or a beautiful woman from anywhere to sit down at the table next to me and start sipping on her own beer. To lean over, to see what I was writing, to see me writing English, and then to start talking to me. "You are an American? What do you think of Bukowski? Of Kerouac? Of Poe? Of Philip K Dick? Do you like indy music? Do you think how it's funny that Georgians all love Pink Floyd?" For once, a question not centered around if I loved their country, but around aspects of my own culture they found interesting. But no, everybody was constrained. People are always constrained, always frightened of a world outside of their bounds that they can't control, that they dare not control. But it's not about control, I don't think they understand. Grasping the world isn't about control at all, it's about understanding, it's about freedom, it's about love. It's about exploration. It's about filling that thirst, it's about finding what it is you're driven to find, even though often we have no idea what it is that is pulling at us. Are your hearts never uneasy? Never aching? Never wanting? Somewhere out there is the holy grail. In some dark corner, in some ancient cave, perched upon some skyscraper, there is the holy grail. And we cannot stop until we find it. To stop is to give up, to lose. To stop means the game is over and we must surrender to the dark inevitabilities of life.

But I won't surrender. I won't. Never. I will play the game until it's done. To the end. If it kills me. If it drives me mad. If it means I'll always be failing, always be writing in my notebook sitting alone. I will find my holy grail.

*That's not necessarily a bad thing, just a different thing. And many of those people have served their time on the outside.

road rage

The car was skidding across the road, dust flying up in all directions, rocks spinning off and ricocheting off of other cars. We passed one car and cut off another car, one that was trying to pass us simultaneously. But then that car caught up, and sheered in front of us, causing the driver to pull a hard right and to enter into a full spin, the world rotating, from going along traffic, to watching traffic coming towards us and finally, to going on with traffic again. Except, we were in the wrong lane, and just as a semi-truck was coming towards us, the driver gunned it to correct the problem, and then there we were riding the bumper of the car we had originally cut off. Our driver was yelling strings of profanities in Georgian and Russian. For some reasons, Georgians always seem good at profaning in a variety of languages.

As my shoulder had been thrust against the car door while we spun, I held tight to my seatbelt. It's rude in Georgia to wear a seatbelt, like making a statement that you don't trust the driver. So to pre-empt this possible insult, most drivers just cut out all the seatbelts in their car, since Georgians can often be very sensitive to any perceived insults. The irony is that Georgians are awful drivers and if anyone needs to be insulted by their driving, it's the people of this country (sorry ma Georgian frends, but you guys kill more of each other in automobiles than Tamerlane or Putin could ever hope to do with swords and bombs).* So, with the full knowledge of the atrocious death tolls that mount up in car accidents around here, I never mind stuffing one to the driver. When I was buckling up earlier, this driver, Gia, kept trying to unbuckle me. "No, no, no! You don't need that!" he kept yelling at me as he tried to push at the release button. I kept pushing his hand away and cursed at him. I thought I was liberal with cursing before, but now I'm even more liberal, and as quite the polyglot.

The edge of the cliff came closer to us as we slid. It was a long way down from here. In my head were scenes of cars rolling down mountainsides, stopping only to explode in blazing infernos. I was appreciating my wisdom in inversely trusting people. I find that the more someone insists on something, especially the more a Georgian insists on something, the less you should trust him.** Gia was adamant about me not wearing a seatbelt. So then, it triggered an alarm in me: this must be a crazy ass driver. And I was right.

He kept yelling and honking his horn. We paralleled the other car, a Jeep Grand Cherokee. We were in the left lane and they were in the right. We kept moving closer to the Jeep to dodge various incoming cars. He was yelling through the open window as horns were blaring, louder and softer with each passing car, a live study in the Doppler Effect. The Jeep pulled ahead and off the road. Four guys got out. There were only three of us.

"Guys, really, this is idiotic," I said, using plenty more curse words than I just typed.

The other driver kept talking about the driver of the Jeep's mother. The guy in the passenger seat, Gela, just laughed. I got out of the car, ready for a fight to break out. Gia ran up to the other driver, his arms wide and flailing back and forth, a stream of words that I can only imagine depicted the other driver's mother in various sexual positions flew out of his mouth. The other driver returned the sentiments. Gela and I were at Gia's sides, holding his arms back from throwing punches at the other driver. The passengers of the Jeep returned the favor, holding their driver back. This seemed a better alternative to an all out brawl, since these guys were at once bigger than me and likely had been in 500 more roadside brawls than myself. I didn't mind throwing in on a fight, but Georgians were known not to play fair. They begin to cry and go for their knives and AKs, and then before you know it, everyone's family ten generations down the line is dead. It's not a country known for friendly resolutions to disputes. Especially among the Svans (Gela was a Svan, and Gia a Migrelian), who was who we were facing.***

One of the opposing guys walked off and took a piss behind a tree, completely unconcerned about the goings ons. Gela did likewise. I was along in pulling Gia back, but quick enough, he was silent as well. Then he reached up and hugged and kissed the other guy. It was turning into one big happy gay moment, right on the side of the road. Well, at least no one's dead this time around.

We all got back in our cars and started driving again. We followed them to a restaurant. We all got out, went into the restaurant and had a couple of liters of vodka and a bunch of khinkali.**** When the bill came, Gia insisted on paying. When one of the other Svans said he would pay, Gia stood up and started yelling at him. I slunk back in the chair, cursing, thinking, here we go again.



* There is a saying amongst Georgians who have been in other countries. "If you can drive in Georgia, you can drive anywhere," they say. This is probably true.
** Which isn't necessarily good advice in this country. Georgians insist profoundly on everything, from sitting down to eating to drinking. I could probably save myself a lot of hassle by just giving up and obeying, but I've got a healthy dose of American paranoia, which means I always ask myself, "Why are they being so insistent?"
*** Svans are generally considered some of the craziest Georgians there are. Migrelians are widely considered to be crazier. To understand just how crazy this is, know that Stalin was neither a Svan or Migrelian.
**** Khinkali is a type of dumpling native to Georgia.

the widow's offering

I watched the embers light up brighter as Dato pulled a drag from his cigarette, the wrinkles around his mouth tightening as he formed a perfect circle around the black, crusty cigarette holder. As he lowered the cigarette, his hands shook. They always shook. When he tapped the cigarette against the ashtray, his hands shook even more. I saw a small Soviet military tattoo between his thumb and index finger, a green faded tiger roaring at nothing.

"My son, you know, he's in prison," Dato said to me in Russian. His eyes were narrow, weathered, looking as if they were about to cave in from some unseen pressure. "He's been there for three years now. Seven more to go."

He poured the white wine from a large glass jar. One glass for me, one glass for him. He looked at me, his eyes steadier than his hands. Unnaturally steady.

"I am sorry, this is all the wine I have. I am so sorry," he said. He brought his free hand to his cheeks that were shadowed with stubble. A look of worry on his face. Worry that I'd be disappointed and that I'd leave.

"No worries, it's nothing, really. I just came to wish you a happy birthday, not to drink your wine."

"But really, no, I should have wine for you. It's been a hard year. Still I don't have a job. I was police chief and now this. My son is in prison. I couldn't even buy enough wood for the winter." Another drag from his cigarette, his hands still violently shaking.

"Don't worry about all that." There was no sink in the kitchen, only a faucet that came from the wall with a plastic bucket underneath. Between the short spurts of our conversation, I could hear it drip. "Let's make a toast. To you, for your birthday." I didn't have the ability to make vast elaborations in my toasts, not like Georgians did. My best toasts were spin offs of jokes. I haven't had one Georgian understand why I make toasts with jokes. They just give me a funny look, like perhaps a dog would give his owner when they do something inexplicable, with the head a little cocked to the side, an eyebrow raised.

"Thank you, thank you." We drunk. The walls were caked in dirt. The floor was solid concrete. In the living room, it was covered in a vinyl copy of a parquet floor. The wood stove burning, giving off the only heat in the house.

We set the empty glasses down. The jar was empty. The perpetual look of worry was only growing on my host's face. He looked nearly on the verge of tears. It was the first time I truly understood the importance of a Georgian to be a good host. It was life. Even though the man had next to nothing in possessions, he ached to give me something. He ached to fill me up with his wine, his food. Yet, there was nothing. No wine and only half a moldy loaf of bread sitting on the table between us. "Let's sit down next to the pechka," I told him. I stood and pulled up a stool next to the solid iron oven.

Dato gave a heavy sigh, glad that I was staying for a bit longer. He went next to me and bent down to the wood stash under the pechka. Those stashes are usually full, but not with his shortage. There were only three logs sitting there. He put an extra piece of wood into the fire, worried that I'd be too cold.

"That's not necessary," I told him.

"But it is," he said. "But it is."

შობა სიონში

The night was cold. My feet near frozen, waiting on a bus for over and hour. I was beginning to not believe my friends when they said it was coming any moment now. We were gathered together, ten of us, all waiting and talking. Running from one parking lot to the next was a man moving with stiff legs, his eyes glazed and his hands held out like he was Frankenstein's monster. One kid whispered to me, "Narkomani," or "drug addict." Sometimes cars would pull up and give a couple of us a ride to Sioni, where there was the church we were headed so that we could attend Christmas mass. The Orthodox Christmas is celebrated on the 7th of January, due to the Orthodox liturgical calendar being set on the Julian calendar. When the bus finally came, we crammed in. It was holding at least one hundred people more than it should have been.



Sioni is the oldest church still in operation in Georgia, dating to the 5th century AD. The ceiling, as is typical of Orthodox churches, raised high above us. It gave way from painted stone to bricks and mortar, various layers of masonry could be seen as the church had been repaired throughout the various ages. Religious icons hung from every column, most glazed and glowing with brass or gold, under each a tray full of burning candles and women and men whispering silent prayers. The women all in silk or cloth hoods or hats, the men with their heads bare and their hats in their hands. Everyone's heads were bowed, praying, or leaning towards each other carrying on quiet conversations as they waited for the mass to begin. Occasionally people would look up at the mystical height of the inside, or at some high up icon staring below down at them. The audience was slowly collecting, slowly growing larger and larger.



At exactly midnight, the mass had begun with the gentle ringing of the bell, which rang almost to the beat of galloping horses. The priest came out in green vestments, followed by other priests and attendants in mostly red vestments. They were in a royal procession, walking to the tingling bells, the priest swinging a hollow gold mace with gold incense, the burning frankincense drifting up in huffs as the mace swung.

The procession stopped and gathered. One priest went up to the division wall, behind which is encased the body of Christ. The choir began to sing old Georgian songs, lifting their voices up to the zenith of the dome above. Mixed with the candles and the floating smoke of the frankincense, there was encased one of those austere and mystical experiences that never fails to fill the heart with a longing and a desire. It's the same feeling that always draws me to the Latin mass in my own Catholic Church. Of course, here was the Georgian singing, which is a stark contrast to the Gregorian chant that I'm used to. I can't even begin to explain how beautiful the singing was. But here's a video of what it sounded like (and very possibly, the same song that it was):



They began to do the readings and intonations, and since they were all in Georgian I didn't understand a thing. That normally just sends me into a dismal self-reflection. At least it would have if I didn't realize that one of those hooded girls held her eyes locked on me. She had been looking at me throughout the entire beginning of mass. I shifted uncomfortably, coughed, pretended not to admire the curving of her cheeks or the soft pout of her lips, or her deep green eyes. Come on man, this is not the time to sit and ponder over a woman's lips! I kept trying to sink myself back into the singing, back into the incense, back into the chanting.

One of the kids I came with whispered to me, "Come on man, it's either we leave now or you'll stay until seven in the morning." My vexed concentration was relieved. I weighed the options. It was a beautiful service, but I was cold. And hungry. And since I wasn't understanding a thing and had no one around to tell me what was going on, I realized that after seven hours of this I would be somewhat near to bored, if not dead from boredom. I wanted to stay longer, but bowed my head in agreement, following him out the church. But just one more glance at the ritual. One more glance, seeing those eyes.

the profound luck

They told me there'd be a party. "Yes, New Years is the biggest party of the year." And of course, I believed them. That's what we do on New Years, we party. We start early that evening and end early the next morning. Then after a day or two, get back to work and get it all started again. When New Years evening came around, nobody was about. Just the host family. Just a few empty glasses sitting on the table, with a bottle of champagne alone and forlorn, a lighthouse warning the ships of New Years wishes and resolutions to watch where they head in the fog of the future. Something was wrong. Was I going to ring in the New Year like this? Quietly? I don't think I'd ever done that before.

Well, there was that one time with Misha in Dallas. We were running late. We had a bottle of 100 dollar champagne, Cliquot or Dom Perignon, I don't remember. And as the minutes ticked closer to the event, we were racing down the highway. I had to pull over into a parking lot, and there we sat on the frost covered concrete, passing the champagne bottle between the two of us, a Russian folk band blaring from the radio of my car, the steam of the exhaust wafting by us, visible in the headlights. But that was different. That was something. And that was with one of my closest friends. This here, this was different than that. Here I was completely alone. With these people, but none of whom I could really call my friends. Not yet. It takes something to get into my heart. It takes a night of listening to music and heavy drinking and talking of God and eternity and war and peace to get to my inner sanctum. Something I really haven't shared with my host family yet.

I resigned myself. I would not obscenity. I would let things pass. That was the lesson here, that slowly I'm learning, though within me burns a kind of mad fire that's always consuming and sometimes lets out. No, I needed water. I needed calmness. I needed my center of gravity in a universe without mass. I walked outside, flask in hand, taking lonely shots of vodka while waiting and waiting. And then it happened.

It started with one rocket here, one tracer there. From my vantage point in the mountains, I watched this sleepy Caucasian town wake up. Fireworks were booming from every house throughout the valley, launching into air, explosions everywhere. People were coming out in the streets with pistols and rifles, firing up into the air. It was like some futuristic battle scene from some anonymous science fiction film. It went on for a good thirty minutes. Explosions, gun fire, general racket and glares throughout the sky. And when it stopped, it didn't all stop at once. It petered out slowly. A general silence fell, but it was only general. Here and there, a bomb blew up. Another firework launched. More gunfire. All the way until morning.

"Shawn, what are you doing boy!" someone called. "Get up here." So I went back up to the family and we sat and had our quiet little supra, they got on skype and chatted with family and friends all across the world. And I sat back watching. Good for them, good for them to be together like that. I'll have another shot of vodka please, thanks. And all was fine. They were happy, and that's a good thing.

The rest of the night passed in a neighbor's house, drinking more and more glasses of wine. The Georgians have an art of making toasts, and with each glass, the longer they last. They praise everything. They praise their friends especially, showering each other with love and compliments… so many that a suspicious mind like mine only thinks that this is some sort of Amway sales pitch. But they're not selling anything. By 7 in the morning, by the first traces of the dawn streaking across the sky, leaking into the glassless windows, toasts were going on into thirty minute breaths. How they love me, how they adore me, how they are thankful for what I'm doing for them here. And here, in my dark, wine riddled mind, I can only think, "What do you want from me?! I'm not that great. You have no idea." When I hear compliments, I only punish myself, I only think of all that bad things I've ever done, I only think that I've never done enough, never could do enough, to live up to what's being said. A compliment is a little miracle to me, and it breaks my hardness with a shock. Maybe they are being honest, maybe there is something to me.

And for this New Years… I'm going to try to do what I've never been wholly capable of. I'm going to quit taking people for granted. But it's hard. This world is peopled with so many great and interesting individuals and I get distracted way too easily. Hell, even the people who I know are reading this blog, and who I've gotten the profound luck to get to know in one way or another. I try not to take you guys for granted. I try not to take all my old friends and family for granted. But the madness seizes me all too often and sometimes it's like I've forgotten them. I wonder how they feel about that, when I just disappear for months and years at a time, off on my own crazy crusades. And I don't always come back. But still, without each and every one of the people who have touched my life… I would be less. I don't ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for me.

you can't have your namtskhvari and eat it too

A quick note on Christmas in Georgia…

As Georgians are Orthodox, they celebrate Christmas on the 7th of January. This is because the Orthodox liturgical calendar still uses the Julian Calendar, rather than the Augustinian Calendar, mainly because the guy who updated and corrected the calendar was a Pope, and at that time, the Orthodox Patriarchs didn't like the Roman Pope. This is probably because his funny looking hat was a different color than their funny looking hats, and probably there's something in the Bible about the colors of funny looking hats, just as there is about calcing. However, many Georgians know the history of the Church, in that we used to be one Church and nowadays there isn't too much different between the Orthodox and the Catholic Churches. They look at us generally the same, except we sit down a lot, cross ourselves backwards and don’t fast quite as much. I like to call us the Western Orthodox Church, in case they haven't heard the news. And by news, I mean what just happened a thousand years ago.

During the Soviet Union, the practice was to transfer all festivities and traditions from Christmas to the New Year, creating one essentially big Supreme Party for the Pride, Glory and Solidarity of the Congress of Workers Soviets. This is very much like when the Catholics took pagan traditions and just transferred them over to Christian holidays (the cross was not made of pine, guys, surprise!). The Soviet social engineers (like the Catholic Church before them) knew that it was important that people still have celebrations and that it would be easier to control a populace if you didn't make too many drastic changes to their traditions and if you still had Santa Clause. So gift giving, Santa Clause, Christmas trees and all that were just moved. And Santa Clause was renamed to Grandfather Frost.

This would have taken place in America too, I imagine, as everything becomes more sterilized, but our Capitalist social engineers (ie marketing companies) decided to just leave it all on December 25th. They are, of course, wiser than the Soviets and the Catholics, in that they work all the more subtly. Having a Ministry of Propaganda, though quite nice in terms of transparency, is probably not the best idea when you're pumping out the lies to the people. No, no, a Press Room works much better for that.

As the Soviet Union dissolved and collapsed like an overused Lada (who am I kidding, those things never break down!), they just kind of left it alone and New Years is still a day to exchange gifts and party it up like 1999 (the last of all real parties in America, until 2011). So today, I'm celebrating my Christmas, which is today, on December 25th. I'm attending a birthday supra tonight, so as in the tradition of all Catholics, I'm taking that birthday supra and turning it into my Christmas celebration. Clever, eh? Then I'll get to party next week for New Years, and then party again on January 7th. So, don't feel sorry for me, the wine shall flow! But, not the women, unfortunately. They will probably be sitting at the "women's table". A pox and scurvy on womens' tables! Or on mens' tables who don't allow for women! And for all the babbling babushkas who'd make a fuss if the women sat too close to the men! Actually, not on the babbling babushkas, since they're the ones making the food, and I'd rather not have a pox or scurvy. You can't have your namtskhvari and eat it too, as they say. And if you're not Georgian and can say that word correctly, I'll give you ten dollars. And I've never understood that saying. Why would you have a cake if you couldn't eat it? That'd just be silly.

watch where you step

Back during training, I used to go jogging nearly every morning with another volunteer. It was in those days that we were in close vicinity together, about five of us in each village. The Peace Corps does a good job of easing you into the insanity of the country you're living in, especially since the training is the most stressful and shocking part of the service. I tried to maintain a modicum of what my normal life back home was like, and jogging and exercise were a part of it. Probably I should have sought relaxation, rather than pushing myself so hard, it would have saved me much heartache and stress. But when I'm confronted with a situation in which I can push myself retardedly onward, I tend to pick that instead of sitting back. Which is strange since normally I'm a person who likes to sit back.

This other volunteer and I would run around in circles on the local football field, until finally, a kid joined us and told us a nice road to run down. We'd run down that road, jumping over rocks and turkeys and dodging pools of standing water and cows for some fifteen minutes and we'd turn back. A dried up river was our boundary. The first few times we reached the boundary, my friend and I would look to each other and say, "Let's run past that next time. Let's see what's on the other side." I was even imagining myself, on one Sunday or another, strapping on my backpack and making an event out of exploring the other side of the river. It was like standing on the edge of civilization and out before you was a great expanse of unexplored country. There is nothing that boils my blood and urges me onward more than unexplored country. That's what brought me out here to begin with. It wasn't any philanthropic urge, it was the urge for exploration, to see and experience new things. And in that sense, I can never be placated. When I sit still for too long, I begin to stir. It is wanderlust. And with all the requirements Peace Corps put on us at the beginning, with all the restrictions, with the utter removal of all of our freedom, I could feel myself grinding away. I needed some release, some exploration. These bindings were growing tighter and tighter, I could feel them digging into my skin. I felt as though soon I would pop.

At the river we stood, the Georgian youth with us. This kid was one of the more shining examples of what Georgians could be. He was a judo champion, always light on his feet, always respectful of his elders and of women. He was lean and tall and was always smiling. He had the kind of sincerity of heart that I always wished I could have. He didn't have any of the darkness that's always hidden behind my eyes. No, he had a simple joy about him. If I could have understood anything he said, which I didn't since he didn't speak any Russian and at the time I was a complete mute in Georgian, I imagine that he would have said some funny anecdotes and would have always had honest praises of his neighbors and enemies, though I doubted he had any of those. Perhaps I'm praising him too highly here and perhaps most of my esteem in him was because we didn't speak the same language. But what does it matter? I can think better of people than they deserve if I want. It's better than thinking worse of people than they deserve.

The hot wind was in our faces. Today would be another hot one. You could tell that early here. The hot air mixed in with the smell of sheep and cow manure. Mornings weren't much for smells, but the sight was worth it. We could see the ridge of mountains to the north of us and look down across the valley to the gentle rise that would lead to the feet of the Southern Caucasus and drop away to Azerbaijan. Always a gentle breeze. Always menacing clouds lurking down the valley. "This is a good day to go," my friend said. "Isn't it?" I replied. We looked at the kid. He was smiling at us. We pointed over the river gulley and grunted.

He shook his head and spewed off a few words in Georgian.

My friend looked at me. I said, "I don't know what he said. Maybe something about snakes?"

"Well, why not?" I asked the kid.

He went on again. His hand signals showing that there was an urgent danger across there.

"I think maybe he's saying there's some kind of building there?" my friend said.

"Hmm… snakes… or maybe a building… maybe there's construction going on?"

"I guess."

From the look on the kid's face though, we were both for the time discouraged from going over. Probably if I had stayed in Giorgitsminda longer than I had, I would have gone over that river. It's a good thing I didn't stay in that village too much longer, since then I'd probably be dead. Chance and fate are a strange thing like that. Had that kid not gone running with us on that day, which he wasn't always with us, then both of us might have been gone.

Why? Past that river was an unmarked minefield. I just found out about that at the conference. There was an old military hospital there, and during the revolution, to prevent wanton ripping off of military and medical equipment, the evacuating Soviets just threw done a few hundred mines. The cool thing about minefields is that they tend to kill more children than anything. And usually the reason they were lain was some thirty years ago and is as historical as Genghis Khan. The lesson here is: Boys, go ahead and play with your guns. But please clean up after yourselves and don't leave your obscenities lying around.

My friend was pissed when we heard about this. I personally found it kind of funny and now a source of bragging rights. So, next time I'm in America drinking beers and telling stories, better believe I'll be using the "I almost ran into a minefield!" story. Though I'll have to embellish it a bit, and since that comes rather naturally, that should go without saying.