Dancekillers (now with Hemingway censoring)

Many of the Americans had left back to their sites after Thanksgiving week. A few of us though stayed in Tbilisi, at this small hostel that's frequented by us Peace Corps folks. It's rather cushy insofar as hostels are concerned. There are only three people to a room, sometimes with bathrooms, and if you are staying as a couple then you can stay in one of the more private couple's rooms. This is contrary to every other hostel experience I've had, where usually there's about twenty smelly backpackers sleeping in the same room as you, and there's one toilet that's so stuffed with toilet paper it can't flush.

The first day, everyone mostly went on their own ways and we met up at the America Bar. That's not what it's actually called, but that's what I like to call it. Basically it's an Irish pub with a crap ton of American flags and Obama pictures everywhere. I think I might have spotted a few Bush pictures too. On weekends, there's a cover band playing U2 songs and there often can be found a couple of Marines at the bar who are about as pissed off as I am that it's impossible to get laid in this country. Probably they see Ukraine as some sort of Promised Land of milk and honey, by which I actually mean available breasts. Er, scratch that, I don't think we have any Marines in Ukraine, so maybe they were hoping for Dubai. I think it's just me that thinks that, so I just hunker down, even more pissed that the cheap Georgian beer is strategically sold out and I'm forced to drink expensive Heinekens.

Anyways, after a few of us got tired of hearing all those patriotic American songs and drinking American beer** and the American Bar (eff yeah!) we spilled back onto the streets. There had to be some place that didn't have a U2 cover band, which would have been something decidedly strange in Tbilisi. "Over there guys! There's a place called Jazz Club, it's got to have some other live music," I shouted, like someone who knew what he was talking about. We opened the doors to Jazz Club and went down some dark stairs. This had to be a cool place man, dark stairs are always the sign of a divey jazz club… or throbbing and nearly empty discotheque! We gathered over in the corner, drinking down some vodkas and the dancing commenced. When I got tired of dancing, I retired back in the corner and looked about the room. Mainly there were just Georgian men staring into the nothingness, something which Georgian men seem to excel at when they're bored. Then there was the waitress, and there was a girl dancing, who was doing all these crazy and amazing moves on a random stripper's pole that was in the center of the room and probably was not a "kargi gogo" (good girl)… my type of girl, but damnit, she was there being all "tsudi gogo" (bad girl) with her boyfriend. By bad girl I mean maybe they kissed once while we were there. That is something only bad people do in this country. Kissing in public is downright shameful! I might add at this point that she wasn't stripping on the stripper's pole.

PC peeps at the disco

Eventually I got bored with all that. There were two things for me to do: drink more vodka, write things in my notebook and stare at the cute waitress and the dancer. When I'm drunk, I usually pull out the notebook, after which it becomes something of a sport for me to decipher what it was I wrote. A couple of my friends back home like to engage in this sport as well. I like to think that I'm writing little pearls of wisdom, but usually I'm just writing things like "Girls might be annoying, but they feel good" and "Profanely I'm drunk, what the profanity am I doing here anyway?" Sometimes I write poems:

"Flashing lights
capture moments
on dance floors.
in truth, feelings flow;
in desire, the beat.
what moves the motion
of some, silences
the motion of others.
and what brings
paradise to some
brings hell to others."

Me toasting to kargi gogos.

Of course, my mind boggling powers of looking like a loner and getting people to leave me alone kept the waitress at bay, and of course, the language barrier would have kept us from talking anyway. This didn't preclude my mind from imagining some strange exotic moment, where we had an instant connection and suddenly I was sharing a bed with her in Rio during Carnival. Of course, I wasn't precisely sure what I was going to do had I been able to speak to her. So I just tried the English, which I'm a master of. "Hi, do you want to have lunch and maybe in three years we can hold hands? But I'm only going to be here for two years and by then maybe I'll have a better understanding of your language and go ahead and shut me up right now and walk off and bring me another bottle of vodka profanely." Back to the journal. Back to another cryptic comment of "Why the profanity am I hear?" Complete with the wrong "here".

We knew the DJ was signaling us to quit dancing and let those five creepy Georgian guys come onto the dance floor when he switched off the four on the floor beats and started mixing up some classic Georgian folk tunes like "Here we will face the Persians again" and "Profanity on these profane Turks already!" They are moving pieces that make you want to kick butt and imagine crazy names like that. Their actual titles are usually like "Yobeni Turkulebi arian yobeni sigije!" and "Ar vitsi magram me var bati buti".** Actually, I don't know any of the titles of Georgian songs. I just *gasp* made them up. But they are really awesome, just in a discotheque they tend to be dance killers. Except for Georgians. It would be like if a DJ in a thriving dance club suddenly dropped a Dashboard Confessionals song like it was hot. Imagine then how empty the dance floor would be. But also imagine that the two creepy emo kids in the corner love to dance to that, so they'd all get up and dance.*** It's kind of the same thing. Except Dashboard Confessionals is crap and Georgian National Music is actually kind of cool.



* Yes, I'm aware U2 is not American, neither is Heineken, so don't press the comment button just yet.
** A joke in three languages.
*** I am aware that emo kids would never be caught dancing!

A Copyright On Universal Truth

We were at a Peace Corps conference all week last week, held in some little conference resort center out in Bazaleti, Georgia. There's a large lake, filled with freezing water, some snow capped peaks peaking out over nearby hills and lots of wind. Seriously lots of wind. Every minute, the wind was blowing and ripping through the cracks in the doors, howling like thousands of souls of damned child soldiers. In that sense, there wasn't much sleep (granted, not that I would be sleeping, as I was busy catching up with the other Amerikelis and drinking profusely), but at least there was plenty to eat. Before, I was accustomed to eating two hard boiled eggs for breakfast, some cheese bread for lunch and some bean soup for dinner. Now we had complete buffet style meals, which meant at each meal, I would stuff myself to near bursting. It was like a vacation, nevermind the eight hours straight of language lessons that we went through. Georgian and Russian and Georgian, enough to make my head spin sixteen times over.

View from hotel room

The nights were filled with drinking and movies, what I imagine Peace Corps volunteers all over the world do when they get together. We'd get together and make funny of all the weird things Georgians do and then do weird things ourselves, like beer pong and limbo. None of us were ignorant of the irony that probably, at the same time, there's a group of Georgians in the United States going on about all the weird things Americans do. But if I could put my two cents on Universal Truth © (I own that copyright, katsos), then I'd say Georgians win the weird contest.

Johnny and Lauren rocking the beer pong

It was strange to see everyone together again. You go through those two months of language training together, two months of living in a completely alien place and trying to get on your feet, where even saying "thank you" is a challenge, of having nearly no freedom whatsoever… your freedom becomes asserted in your relations with each other, for better or for worse. And like a family, you don't choose these people, but you put up with them, and in a sense, grow a sort of love for them. And so a reunion of volunteers has all the charms and awkwardness of a family reunion, a mix of happiness and rubbing on the nerves. But since it's only a week, it wasn't long enough to rub down the nerves. And soon, we'll all be back to our Georgian families…

The last night, Friday night, we decided to have a Thanksgiving Dinner. We all chipped in money for goods and some of the more talented individuals in the culinary arts took the kitchen and whipped up some American food, some of the best I've had in a while hands down. Of course, eating bean soup for six weeks straight might have changed my taste buds. ANYTHING becomes good after that. But I'm of the opinion this food was legitimately tasty. And on top of that, we had a special guest.

The master chef at the Radisson in Tbilisi was this Greek guy who, as a part of his job, moves every year. He and his wife love the life. One year, when they were in Yekaterinburg, Russia, they had become fast friends with a Peace Corps volunteer there (back before the Russkis kicked us out for putting spies in the PC). And so every year after that, if the guy lives in a country serviced by the Peace Corps, he makes sure to cook up some turkeys and serve them. Now there's quite and awesome guy. And that volunteer must have been pretty awesome to make such an impression!

So, on top of the goodies the volunteers cooked, the master chef at the Radisson cooked supplied us with some turkeys that he brought and cooked for us. He and his wife sat down and shared the evening with us. Then everyone departed and returned to beer pong in our rooms.

View of Caucasus from Bazaleti

The last day, most people just milled around, not really wanting to go back to our sites, everyone downcast, tired and depressed. There, at Bazaleti, we had heating and hot water and hot showers and lots of varieties of food. We stood at the bus, looking out to the snow covered mountains, fearing what was to come. Soon it would be back to hard boiled eggs, bean soup and drunk creepy guys in the park. Fuck. There had to be a way to extend this. And some of us knew there was an answer. Tbilisi was waiting for us.

On the Ruins of Dmanisi

What I like, standing among the ruins of ancient cities, are the echoes of lives lived long ago. They seep out of the stones like watery vapors, wrapping themselves around you, feeding your imagination. You walk where the dead have walked, you step where the dead have stepped. And indeed, you are always doing this, but no place is it so obvious than at a place of ruins. These were once the centers of human activities and were reclaimed by time and nature. Buildings crumbled, trees grew from within old barracks and storehouses and bedrooms. What happened here? Why did other cities survive and this one die? Why did other civilizations collapse and this one or that one keep on going? There are no places except those where history is so evident do these questions come in full form and stare at you. And it makes you wonder, from the chills of those hallowed ghosts, what will happen of you? What will happen of your people? Will America still stand in 100 or 1000 years? What will the history books speak of us?

Me in front of random structure

Looking down from main fortress

These pictures show the remains of a city near the modern day town of Dmanisi in Georgia, now simply called the Dmanisi Archeological Site (in Georgian and in Russian). Dmanisi grew to notable size due to it's being an intersection of trade routes, paths from the Great Silk Road, trade between Georgia, Armenia and the empires to the South. As time passed, the strategic nature of the area served as a good fortification for the traders and the town grew. Under the Georgian king David the Builder, in the 10^th century, it flourished, and good to his name, he built a castle there to protect the surrounding lands from Persians, Turks, Arabs and Armenians, as well as any other enemies Georgia could muster up. Eventually, in the 14^th century, Georgia became a battleground for two great khan states, the Golden Horde, led by Hordak, to the North and Tamerlane's Timurid Empire (named, uh, after Tamerlane) to the East. As the Golden Horde had hit Tamerlane's empire a few times, coming through Georgia, Tamerlane decided to raze everything in Georgia so that no one could support or host an army from the Golden Horde. Tamerlane personally led his troops as they massacred thousands of Georgians. Dmanisi was one such town that no longer saw daylight after the coming of Tamerlane.

View down from main fortress, the church dates to the 12th century

Main fortress behind me

While we walked along the mounds of the old city, Gela, my former host, was randomly there. "Shawnee!" he called over. We met up and walked down to everyone's cars. "I have supra to attend to. You coming?"

The Georgians then started debating something. With their tone of voice and the speed of their talk, it was like watching a hardcore Republican and Democrat debate healthcare (which is to say, they were shouting a lot and neither were making any sense to me). Then Gela turned back to me and said in Russian, "Okay, first we are going to creek and having drink." Georgians, it seems to me, just like to shout. It doesn't really mean they're having an argument or anything, they're just generally a loud and serious-looking people. Hell, even one is going on about how beautiful their wife is, they're generally yelling at her while they do this. I don’t think Georgians actually notice this tendency of theirs. Or, I'm just assuming this, and really they are being angry with each other all the time. Who knows? I just roll with it.

I would say Georgians are deaf and that's why they yell all the time, but clearly this is not true. My Babushka, from downstairs, could say, in a whisper, "Do you want to eat?" to my host mom, who's upstairs. "Now or later? We're having bean soup. Okay, that's fine. Just let me know." Perhaps they're deaf and telepathic? That could be an option.

Looking up from the creek

So anyways, we went down to a small stream nearby, where you just make out some of the stone fortifications of the castle high above a cliff that hung over us. At the base of the stream, we spread out a blanket and started drinking some pear vodka. Which is, to date, the nastiest stuff I've ever tasted. Here writes no fan of pear vodka, and as well, one who would warn you never to have it. But we had a whole bottle of it that needed to be drunk, and now I was teamed with Gela and this old guy that was with Gela. I silently thanked God that we had run into them, since now that bottle was shared four ways (there were two other guys and a girl with me, the driver wasn't drinking, neither was the girl). While we drank, I sat there thinking, "If Gela hadn't come, it would have been me and this guy drinking this alone!" Now think guys, I'm not one to hate drinking. In fact, I generally consider it as one of my favorite sports. But this was pear vodka! Until you've drank it, you've tasted no horrible drink.

Unless, of course, you've had fermented goat's milk. Now that is some nasty stuff. But that's neither here nor there. God willing.

Le cat est mort, vive le cat!

The neighbor had come over for one of his random talks. He sat down in the kitchen, asked the Babushka for some coffee, and began his long schpiel about pensions in Georgia versus pensions in Greece, and about how houses in Greece are bigger and nicer and he used to have a job there and yadda yadda yadda, followed about more things of which I only understood very little and cared about even less. I was looking at his beard scruff, and watching how there seemed to be a few crumbs stuck in it and wondering if they'll drop soon. And if they drop soon, will they land in the coffee?

He kept beckoning me to sit down, as Georgians get hugely nervous if you're standing and they're sitting. I kept refusing, just to see how long he'd interrupt himself because I was standing. Finally the Babushka appeared from behind me and pulled me into a chair, saying, "Baggada, you're too tall, badabalodaluli."

The Babushka had gone out for a bit, and when she came back in the house, the cat, Patara, darted in and went under the kitchen seat. Patara, which means "small" in Georgian, was a good cat. I have fond memories of how, in the summer when I slept with my window open, she'd sneak across the gas line and jump into my room and snuggle up. Or, now that the dog is dead, how she'd often come up and great me and rub against my legs, purring loudly and possibly trying to kill me as I went down the stairs. I like to jest about hating animals, but I actually really love them (a thing about me is that the more I make fun of something, the more I love it… which is why women end my relationships fairly quickly… people don't actually like being laughed at, who knew?).

Patara on the gas line, sneaking away from my room

Levan continued going on about Greece and passports and whatever. I didn't really know as my attention kept alternating between the cat, the Babushka making attempts at getting the cat and the crumbs in Levan's beard scruff. Occasionally the host daughter would make a noise or attempt to interrupt Levan's droning, and I'd glance over at her, but that was really as far as my attention and comprehension were making it this morning. Finally, the Babushka stood up, now with a plastic bag in hand, saying something that roughly sounded like "blaggababuli daguli maguli cats." Levan, while still talking about the pensions and keeping his green eyes solidly affixed to mine, with one hand scooped up the cat by its neck. He placed the cat in the plastic bag and continued on. "They can pay for such huge houses. And when people have pensions, they can spend more money and buy more houses and get the economy moving." Completely unfazed, unmoving. His arm worked like some sort of hinged arm on a CAT, meanwhile the cat was confused as to what was happening and silent while the Babushka closed the bag, tied it and disappeared.

"In Greece they have so many great things…" Levan continued.

"The cat? What are you guys doing with the cat?"

"I once saw these robots there that were controlled by…"

"What the fuck are you guys doing with the cat?"

"… and the women would just sit around and you could talk to them…"

The Babushka came back in the house, minus a cat. I addressed the Babushka, "What did you do with the cat?"

"Blaggadabuli nabatooli dadoodaba."

Blank stare from me.

"You don't understand?" she asked in Russian.

"Right," I responded.

"Bomski is a bad cat, so we gave Patara away. Don't worry, Gvansa is bringing a kitten in later."

Blank stare from me.

"You don't understand?"

"I get what your saying, but I don't I grasp it. Why did you give away the good cat? And why does it matter if Gvansa is bringing a new one? I liked that cat."

"Mishka, Mishka, blagadabooli."

"I don't know how Mishka is involved in this. I don't get that part. I don't know who Mishka is."

"He took the cat," the Babushka said and went back to doing something with the dishes. Meanwhile, Levan hadn't broken his concentration and continued talking about things to do with Greece and how it's better over there. I really don't think Samual L Jackson could have broken that man's concentration.

Later that night, I learned my cat of four years, Caesar Augustus, passed away from a heart attack. All my pets are dying! Possibly being snuffed out by the Babushka! But I can hardly blame Caesar's death on the Babushka. He was a rather fat cat, so he did kind of having it coming. But I'm going to miss that fat bastard.

Caesar about to pounce on Raven, the photographer

RIP Caesar

On Dogs and Men

When the night comes, the dogs play like men. They walk down their streets with serious dedication, like they have business. They go to meet with other dogs, they sit back and chat and check out all the bitches passing by. Sometimes they make a whistle or a howl as the girls strut their asses on by. The bitches' tails and heads held high, and sometimes they make a low threatening bark… not unlike women.

The streets of Bolnisi are full of them. During the day, they are generally curled up, sleeping off their hangovers and late nights. When you walk by, they pop up their head, to see if you're a threat and then stick it right back underneath their belly if you're not. If they recognize you, you might get a couple of tail thwaps of recognition, but no more. At night, they become more energetic. If you come near their home, their territory, they become like aggressive cowards. They will stand-to and growl and bark at you as long as you face them. But when you turn your back, they'll move in for a bite. The behavior can be avoided by giving them a swift boot to the head, wherein they whimper, back off and resume growling and barking. The dogs that never learned quick enough you can recognize by the way they whimper when you approach. During the day, dogs are more prone to whimpering. At night, their more prone to attacking you from the rear.

If you're not in their territory, or their packs' territory, you rarely have to fear them. They're usually attending to some business, or just hanging out watching the city life with their mates. It's only when you come near their homes that there's a problem. Often dogs like to test the limits of their territory and they'll sneak into neighboring territories to take a piss and tag it. I've seen packs of dogs get into fights over this behavior, raping each others' bitches and tearing each others' limbs. You can tell who's been at it the night before by who's limping the morning after. They limp and they pretend nothing happened, probably dreaming about the next raid.

I watched one dog do a day raid. As I walked across the town, this little beagle, while the other dogs were sleeping, went from post to post taking a small piss, leaving his scent. I was at a bar on the other side of town and I saw this little punk pissing on a nearby post. He knew what he was doing. He would be the talk of the town the next night, when the dogs were howling. And more than one dog will want his un-neutered nuts.