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.