Where is Nickum?

This Day in Bald History

2008-12-31T12:40:00.000-08:00

Some of you may know the terrible saga of my bald book--This Day in Bald History. Three years ago I set out to write a Page-A-Day calendar that would list the accomplishments of bald people. I thought it would be funny. I thought it would sell.

I was wrong.

A couple of publishing houses passed on the book, and I responded to the rejection by leaving the country for two years to lick my wounds amidst the comforts of former-Soviet decay. But now I'm back. And I haven't given up the dream. So against common sense and better judgment, I'm bringing Bald History directly to the public via:

http://thisdayinbaldhistory.com

To have compiled so much useless information on bald people is truly absurd and frankly, I think I deserve some sort of acclaim for it. The site will be updated daily so every day will enlighten the public on some aspect of bald history. It's like an advent calendar, but without chocolate.

So visit the site. Tell a friend. Tell a publisher. And try not to think about the days and hours I spent on this.

Nickum Appears on Podcast

2008-12-30T09:36:00.000-08:00

While the snow buried Seattle, I was confined to a Ballard recording studio (Fitz's closet) to record a podcast for The Dirtbag Diaries, an outdoor adventure podcast sponsored by Patagonia and largely written by Fitz Cahall, a fine American and credit to his people.

The title of mine is "Bedtime Stories for Wanderers." For those interested, you can listen to me recount how my dad's travel stories inspired me to be more curious about the world and eventually lead me to the Republic of Georgia. Just follow the link below.

Bedtime Stories for Wanderers, by Ryan Nickum

Living in America

2008-09-27T11:48:00.000-07:00

OUR BEDROOM WINDOW: GEORGIAN FLAG AND MY HAND X-RAY

Where's Nickum? Oh, here and there. Mostly he's found in his cubicle putting the necessary data into the correct boxes and checking the tax status of various non-profits. Sometimes he can be found picking up his dog's poop with a small plastic bag, which is quite degrading. Long gone are the days of napping. In place of it, he spends a lot of time riding the bus to and from work. There is never enough time in America. There are errands to run, a dog to train, bills to pay, and wor work work.

In America the neighbors never walk in and drag him off to guzzle wine at a supra. His co-workers don't sit down to a wine-fueled feast when someone fixes the copier.

But it's not all daily grind. There's good coffee to drink, apple cider to press, Texas to visit, NFL football, and friends to marry (Ryan is now a Reverend in the Universal Life Church--the one you can join for free on the Internet). Even as a man of the cloth he remains the same guy.

So as Russian tanks retreat from his home of two years Ryan goes about his normal American life. He and Paige plop down on the couch and eat a pizza slice or some pork roast as they watch the news. It's pretty cool. Due to a computer malfunction there's no photographic record of his time in Texas or at Pojken and Chaitee's wedding.

But make no mistake, he's glad to be back, even if the dog wakes him up every hour through the night because it has the runs and needs to go outside to carpet bomb the neighbor's landscaping.

While life is busy here, Georgia is still on his mind a lot, especially with all that's going on. Soon he, Paige and fellow volunteer Nicholas will be hosting a social fundraiser to raise aid money for those impacted by the recent war in Georgia. It will be a supra. Horns will be filled with wine, the table will sag under the food and we will toasts to our friends and host families back in Georgia.

Life is good here. I hope it is back in Georgia as well.

Latest from Georgia

2008-08-10T16:13:00.001-07:00

I'll keep updating this with news and links as I receive them. Currently, Peace Corps is relocating their volunteers to Armenia. Here are some links that might be of interest:

http://joshuatrevino.com/?p=638
http://georgiamfa.blogspot.com/
http://georgiandaily.com/
http://eurasianet.org/resource/georgia/index.shtml
http://civil.ge/eng/

Update on Conflict Between Russia and Georgia

2008-08-08T21:12:00.000-07:00

I've been back in the states since July 17th, but things have definitely changed since I've been gone. According to news reports Georgian troops have been battling in the separatist region of South Ossetia. Russia has sent troops into the region and their jets have bombed various points inside Georgia.

Obviously, we're worried sick about our Georgian friends and fellow volunteers there and are watching the situation closely. Unfortunately, John Edwards couldn't keep it in his pants and now his infidelity is occupying the cable news. I've included some news links and first hand accounts below that might interest any of you trying to keep up on the situation there. I'll try to update it when possible as I hear news from those over there.

Links that may update their news on Georgia more regularly:
http://eurasianet.org/
http://www.civilgeorgia.ge/eng/
http://georgia.usembassy.gov/
http://www.alertnet.org/
http://wwitv.com/portal.htm?http://wwitv.com/television/index.html?http://wwitv.com/tv_channels/7123.htm (you can watch Georgian TV station Rustavi2 live on this I think).
We haven't really heard much from the Peace Corps volunteers still in Georgia. Many of the phones have been down since Russian bombs have taken out some of the cell towers, including one in Gori. One volunteer in Gori is said to have had all her office windows blown out by a bomb that struck nearby. People in Launchkhuti say they've seen the bombs or missles flying overhead. It was confirmed with locals that some bombs dropped in Poti, a port town on the Black Sea.

I'll update this as I receive news.

10... 9... 8... 7...

2008-07-10T01:54:00.000-07:00

With one week to go I can't even begin to describe what I'm feeling. I'm not a terribly emotional person, but I think departing is going to be an absolute roller coaster of emotions. Saying goodbye to my host family is going to be hard. I've lived with them at their house longer than any place except my parents. Saying goodbye to the close friends who've shared the good times and bad times won't be easy.

On the other hand there is a lot of excitement, not just to be getting home to see everyone, but also it means I don't have to put up with some of the hassles I've had to endure here. I'm looking forward to not standing out in a crowd and being stared at everywhere I go. I can't wait to be anonymous.

So there's only a few more supras to go and then one long mini-bus ride across the country. The puppy needs one more shot and then I think we're set. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it will all go smoothly, but that seems to never be the case here. The unexpected always seems to happen.

I don't have any photos to post because my laptop chord broke and the battery is dead. Once I get back to the states I'll load a bunch more on this. I plan also to photograph all the delicious foods I'm going to eat in Seattle and Texas and post them for the PCVs still in Georgia to look at. And then that should be pretty much it for this blog...

See you all soon.

PS: I apologize to Judy for the delay in my posts. For all of you who keep track of Paige through my blog because she NEVER updates hers here's an update: Paige is doing well. She is eating 3 square meals a day and getting plenty of rest. She's been working on her tan at the beach and researching jobs in Seattle. She's been going over family photos with me and quizzing me on every one's identity (I keep getting Hunter and Hudson and Harrison mixed up). We'll be back in Texas in early August just in time for the serious heat. She's looking forward to eating BBQ and Ma Sue and Julie's home cooking as well drinking a margarita and catching up with everyone.

More Maka

2008-06-22T00:45:00.000-07:00

I CLEAN UP MAKA'S MESS ON JEFF'S CARPET

So it turns out that airlines and airports are all part of a vast conspiracy to keep Paige and I from returning with our puppy. We've spent much of the past two weeks battling with them, making repeated phone calls, trips to airline offices, sending emails and all the rest. It's been an absolute nightmare.

MAKA ALSO ENJOYS SNEAKING INTO THE STORE ROOM TO EAT THE SPILLED CORN FLOUR

But finally it seems like we might be out of the woods--although with an increased price tag for our tickets. This dog is proving to be expensive. However, since everything has consistently gone wrong with this we aren't prepared to congratulate ourselves just yet. As it stands now, we will by flying home on the 17th with our puppy stored below in the luggage area. She'll have all of her shots and her puppy passport.

In the meantime, I've been busy shuttling her between my village and Tbilisi for her vet appointments. For a small puppy, she behaves really well on the five hour trips to the capital on crowded mini-buses. Mostly she just sleeps, which is a nice vacation from her other hobbies of chewing my pant legs, eating chicken crap in the yard and finding dead chickens and birds to snack on in the vineyard. I think no matter how well we train her, she will always be part street dog.

SHE HAS AN AWKWARD RUNNING STYLE

Maka the Dog

2008-06-10T01:04:00.000-07:00

BBQ UNDER THE CRUMBLING BRIDGE NEAR THE MAN IN HIS TIGHTY WHITEYS WASHING HIS CAR

My time is almost up here in old Sakartvelo. In six weeks I’ll be headed home. To be more precise, I will be departing in exactly 886 hours. But who’s counting?

The vast majority of my students have ceased doing their homework or class work, but continue to attend the lessons. Summeritis is upon us all. So school drags on, but the last day of school is fast approaching. Only 8 more school days to go...

While it’s probably a little premature, I recently cleaned out my room, sorting through the heaps of paper and mess strewn about. During the cleaning I came across piles of notebooks from my first six-months in my village. They were filled with the notes of all the projects I’d hoped to work on for my school and community.

Inside were surveys of local needs, strategic plans, project outlines, and notes from meetings with Jeff, the other volunteer in my area. Inside were the details of the Youth Activity Center we’d hoped to start. There was our research on how we could bring an Internet café to the area and for a girls’ basketball league. There were our notes on starting a local NGO and on a regional wine festival. There were lists of after-school activities and clubs, and numerous other ideas that never came to be. And not from a lack of trying.

I think sometime down the road I’ll look back on my time here and I’ll see that I’ve accomplished more than what it seems like now. Still, when you’re tossing out piles of English tests in which many of the students did little more than sign their name in Georgian... well it can feel a little discouraging.

So with all this weighing on my mind, I met up with some fellow volunteers for a BBQ at the river near my house. In addition to grilling up kebabs we also used the open flame to help us make a break with some of the bad memories from our time here. Each of us brought three items to burn. I brought one my student’s tests, some pages for a textbook we tried to write, and a notebook full of Jeff and my plans for improving out community.

JEFF AND I BURN OUR NGO PLANS

The purpose of this pyre was to put these disappointments behind us, but while it felt good to burn them it didn’t necessarily make me feel better about what I’ve accomplished here. So when the BBQ was over and we walked back to Jeff’s house I still felt low. Along the way we came across a street dog nursing it’s three puppies and we stopped to pet it. As the puppies crawled over our feet Paige and I each decided simultaneously we needed to take one back to America.

STREET DOG NURSING PUPPIES

I know I said “No more dogs in Georgia.” I know that. But we had to take this one. We have no idea what breed she is, but she’s friendly, adventurous, and despite the worms and fleas, she’s a delight to be around.

MAKA

So this is going to be my legacy. For two years I struggled to improve my school and my community. But the one tangible legacy I’m going to leave behind is that I rescued one dingy puppy from a life on the streets of Bagdati to take back to America and feed it puppy chow and keep it free of fleas and ticks and mange. This is our legacy—Maka the puppy.

Easter

2008-05-08T00:45:00.000-07:00

By the Georgian calendar, Easter was a few weeks ago. People greet one another by saying “Christ is risen” and reply by saying “It is true.”

In my village, the tradition is to head to the graveyard on Easter, gather with friends and family, and toast to your departed relatives and neighbors. People wander the graveyard, dropping by to visit other graves and toast to those they knew. By the time you turn 60 (like my host father) you tend to have known a lot of people who have died and it takes a lot of wine to toast them all. After numerous toasts the graveyard becomes to difficult to navigate through.

Prior to Easter, many Georgians fasted (no meat or dairy) for 40+ days. So this day is also a celebration of all the foods they missed, as you can see from my host mother relishing her piece of khatchapuri (cheese bread).

Children

2008-05-08T00:31:00.000-07:00

A lot of you are probably wondering, “Ryan, you’re a poorly dressed bald guy with limited earning potential and a penchant for tacky art and a shabby collection of kitchen magnets. So how is it you convinced Paige to marry you?”

I’m glad you asked. Marriage is not something to be taken lightly. It takes a lot of thought. For instance, one has to decide if the woman sitting beside him is truly the person he wants to wake him up in the middle of the night for the rest of his life to tell him to stop snoring? Is she uniquely qualified to balance the checking account? Can she do my taxes? Those are all important things to consider.

But so is the issue of children. That’s why before we became engaged, we went out and rented this “starter family.” For the low rate of $10 a day, you can test out your parenting skills with these adorable rental children. Paige proved a capable of diaper changer and was able to distract them with key chains when they started to cry. She's quite a catch.

Cultural Exchange Continues

2008-05-07T21:52:00.000-07:00

They say that breakfast is the most important meal. A solid breakfast kick starts your metabolism and provides energy for your busy day. But is that still true when breakfast includes three shots of vodka?

Is homemade hooch part of this complete breakfast? It’s hard to say. Luckily, according to tradition in Guria (a region in Georgia), the limit is three shots with breakfast. After all, there’s work to be done that day.

A morning of vodka may sound odd to many of my countrymen, but it’s amazing how easily they can be convinced of the benefits.

Above, my brother questions the logic of combining vodka with his morning toast and jam.

Here Paige explains how the best part of waking up is Folgers AND vodka in your cup.

Stuart accepts this logic as Paige pours him another shot. Stuart mentally prepares his tastebuds and stomach of what's to come.

Having already embraced the vodka breakfast, my dad suddenly feels that he has another toast in him and that he would like to break the Gurian tradition and make it a 4 shot breakfast, after all, he’s on vacation and has no work to do.

And so four shots it was. As you can tell from the photo my mother is kind of laughing, but probably wondering if this is a tradition my father will be bringing back to America with him.

Paige and I are Getting Married

2008-04-24T03:08:00.000-07:00

So let me think... what's new? Been eating a lot of khatchapuri... uhm, attending supras... teaching the children... hmmm, oh yeah, and I got engaged to my girlfriend Paige Weldon. Pretty exciting, although it's hard to tell if Paige agrees with that sentiment from the picture.

We'd discussed getting married before, but it really gained steam after we met each others' parents over the past month when they visited Georgia. Both of us felt at ease with the other's family and really enjoyed them. A close family is only one the things that Paige and I have in common. As the months have passed, and our feelings have deepened, we've discovered more and more just how well we compliment one another.

I called Paige's parents before I proposed to ask for their blessings and they agreed--I was much relieved. I regret that I did it over the phone, as it would have been much better to do it in person, but Paige and I were eager to move ahead. Paige's father has assured me that even though he's given his blessings, when I get to Texas we're still going to have THE talk.

Since hardly any of you back home know Paige Weldon let me give you her vitals:

Born: September 19, 1981
Height: 5'4 3/4
Hometown: Longview, TX
Education: BA in Journalism and English from Texas A&M
Current Hobbies: Reading, baking chocolate chip cookies with cornflour, attempting to stay warm in winter, teaching children, talking about Mexican food, photographing large pigs in her village, spending time with her fiance (Me).
Fears: Spiders

Paige is also very kind, generous, caring, fun, and is good with small children and animals, including these abandoned puppies in Batumi.

We met in Peace Corps and have been dating since September of 2006. We've spent practically every weekend and all our vacation days together. She's awesome and I'm completely in love with her. Against all reason and common sense, Paige seems to feel the same for me, thus I did not need to bridenap her and stuff her in the back of a marshutka (see picture), as she happily agreed to get married.

At this point we don't have any specific wedding plans, but we're intent on it costing a fortune, be full of drama, and to be extremely stressful for not only us, but all our friends and family. We both agree that the best way to start a life together is by burning everyone you care about, going into debt, and exhausting every ounce of patience for one another. I hope you're already for 1001 Arabian Nights themed wedding in Cabo San Lucas!

The decision to get married was incredibly easy, not that we didn't give it a lot of thought. Certainly there was some peer-pressure from some of the other volunteers. And my mother did mention a couple hundred times how much she liked Paige and how I "better not screw this up."

I can't wait to bring Paige back to Seattle and introduce her to all of you. I think you'll all really like her. And if you don't then you're a complete jerk. And I can't wait to get down to Texas to meet the rest of Paige's family and friends and everyone there who cares about her like I do. Both Paige and I are really excited about returning to America and starting our lives together. We are really happy.

The Nickums Come to Georgia

2008-04-24T01:45:00.000-07:00

WE STROLL THE BATUMI BEACH

My parents and brother just got on a plane to return to America after a couple weeks here in Georgia and I already miss them. Together we saw many historical and interesting sites, but I know what impressed them the most was the people. Between meeting host families, counterparts, fellow volunteers, and Paige, my family walked away from Georgia in high spirits and with a lot of new people to call family.
MY DAD AND OMARI TOAST

Throughout their stay they endured supra after supra with impressive stamina. Stuart even heroically put down four horns at one supra, an impressive feat. I think they were overwhelmed by the generosity of my host family and the other locals who took us into our home, toasted our family and ancestors, and fed us ridiculous amounts of food and wine. Georgia won a few more fans in America.

It was especially nice for me to see them after so many months apart. And after having a great time with Paige’s family when they visited, she got to get to know my family as well. Everyone hit it off.
My HOST MOTHER LELA, MY MOM AND STUART

It was a fairly emotional time for me, as everyone went out of their way to make my family feel at home. Numerous toasts at numerous supras revolved around the theme of the importance of family, and the people I know here thanked my parents for raising me right and they in turn thanked all the locals for taking such good care of me.
MR NICKUM DRINKS HIS HORN WITH EASE

It was really nice to get to see Georgia through the new eyes of my family and it reminded me of so many of the positives of life here. The last two weeks (along with the time I spent with Paige’s wonderful family) were some of the best times I’ve had here and I will think back on them fondly in the years ahead.

It was a great visit. Thanks Georgia.
STUART AND I DRINK THE 2ND HORN OF THE EVENING

NCAA Tourney

2008-04-06T00:55:00.000-07:00

When it comes to keeping up to date on American sports, my location does no favors. My quaint and scenic village is a virtual black hole for sports news. From the few television channels at my house, all I've learned of American sports in the past year is that Shaq was traded.

I watched a DVD of the Super Bowl... a month ago. I'm currently reading an old Sports Illustrated detailing the Jason Kidd trade. I listen to podcasts of sports talk radio from January--"There's no way the Giants can beat the Pats. No way..." I'm simply not very up to date.

And it's been that way for almost two years. I don't recognized half the current Mariner roster. I only recently discovered the Sonics were being taken away to Oklahoma City and thus, have only begun to imagine various scenarios in which David Stern, Howard Schulz, and the new owners meet an unpleasant demise in a manner fitting their treachery. Basically I'm totally out of the sports loop. But despite my total lack of knowledge I STILL WON THE NCAA TOURNAMENT BETTING POOL!

Luther, Fitz, Becca, Sai, Taylor, Lil' Ryan--all of them lost to a guy who can't name a single guy in the tourney. I owe it all to Memphis and also to my intuitive sports skills. Okay, maybe it was just luck. And while I recognize that my victory was hollow (no money on it), I'm looking forward to being back, going to Mariners games, watching Seahawk games at Luther's (Justin needs to give me my seat back) and eventually rooting for the Trailblazers and sending hate mail to David Stern. Paige and I have already negotiated the amount of SportsCenter I can watch and that Sundays are sacred days to watch football and eat pizza.

Two years is way to long to go without televised sports. I'm looking forward to catching up, learning who the new players are, watching the NFL draft with my brother and just generally being a typical American guy. And once I'm caught up, I predict I win the NCAA tournament betting pool next year as well.

Area Churches

2008-04-05T03:01:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in life we experience a higher calling. I received mine the other day when my school Director told me the local priests needed me to take photos of the paintings in various area churches and monasteries. I have a camera. I have free time. I'LL DO IT!!!

And so I did. I even got to eat lunch with the local monks, eating a deliciuos fried mushrooms dish and a green salad with vinagrette.

Nothing Much of Interest

2008-03-29T03:00:00.000-07:00

There are few traditions like the Georgian road trip. We traveled down the numerous four lane freeways, stopping off for fast food along the way and dining and dashing at Dennys. There's just nothing like it.

Sometimes you just feel like gathering your friends together and Paige's younger brother Brady and go find a church roof to sit on to watch the sunset.

Segnagi is a lovely town in the west and I would recommend visiting it. For some incomprehensible reason there's a Mexican restaurant there. Actually quite tasty.

Against all logic Paige continues to date me.

STUPID JEN

2008-03-27T03:13:00.000-07:00

As most of you know Jen McFann is my sworn enemy. Her endless comments about my baldness and old age play like a broken record. My glasses are constantly smudged by her grimy thumbs and she constantly mentions that she’s a published author and I’m a hack. Her Georgian language skills are very impressive and she insists on mocking mine and how I get by with my pigeon Georgian and ridiculous hand gestures. I loathe you Jen McFann.

Jen’s birthday is approaching and with it she grows closer to becoming old herself. I welcome this development. I look forward to toasting her at her birthday, and I will do so with beer and I will hold it in my left hand, as this is how you toast your enemies in Georgia.

And even though I hope she gets leprosy and ends up living as a reindeer herder in the wastes of Siberia or pulling a rickshaw for pennies in Rangoon, I do have one positive thing to say about her: Her blog is really funny and you should check it out. There’s a link to it (Jen in Georgia) on my blog. I encourage you to read it and then I encourage you to leave nasty comments on it.

Someday, when Jen is appointed Secretary of State, I will go to the press with shameful stories about her. I will ruin her political career if it’s the last thing I do. That punishment is for cooking the worst fried rice I’ve ever tasted and for constantly talking about Star Trek, X-Files and the Hanson brothers. Always going on about the stupid Hanson brothers. But before I ruin her I suggest you read her blog and laugh at the humor in it just as I do.

Go to hell Jen.

English Language Competition

2008-03-21T20:33:00.000-07:00

The run up to the language competition was one of dread and foreboding. My students generally avoided writing the essays that would make them eligible to participate. Some grades didn’t even field a single student. And the general mood of many of my best students was one of lethargy and reluctance. However, at the last moment a few more students came forward and 18 eventually attended the competition.
DIMI'S FINEST
Last year my school had a couple 4th place finishes. But this year Dimi kicked ass. Of the 28 prizes available Dimi won six and there were even three more schools competing this year. I was incredibly proud of them, especially of Tamuna, the 11th grade winner who came out of nowhere to win 1st place.
TAMUNA

The students were interviewed by a pair of American volunteers, from the 20 who showed up to judge the competition. They also wrote creative essays and the judges combined the scores to determine the winners. All students received certificates of participation and the winners received books as prizes. In all, it was a great success and I’ll try to remember the days like this one when I’m back in America.

Of course after anything significant we have to have a supra and so we did. I played the role of Tamada and led the table of Georgian teachers and American volunteers in the toasting. We toasted to each other, to Georgia and American friendship, to our students and counterparts and numerous other toasts. Our toasts were long and heartfelt, our glasses refilled often, and the supra was a mixture of Georgian and American traditions.

When it was over we all went back to Jeff’s house, except those of us who were dragged into a private room in the restaurant to drink vodka shots with some local men. Normally this offer is refused, but since Jeff’s host father was one of the men we gave in.

Soon we were back at Jeff’s and turned his tiny apartment into a dance party and the revelry continued until late into the night. For the 2nd year in a row the English Competition was the party of the year and definitely the place to be. If anyone from back home could have seen the day’s events you’d all be shocked by how Georgian we’ve all become.
NICHOLAS AND JEFF MAKE UP FOR THE TIME JEFF WASHED HIS SOCKS IN THE SINK

So thanks to all the teachers and volunteers who made this day possible. And thanks especially to the students who participated with enthusiasm and skill and made us feel like our efforts are having some impact. It was a great day and one we will cherish for years.

DIMI’S GAMARJOS!!!

2008-03-13T02:02:00.000-07:00

Here in Georgia it’s like someone just hit a switch and suddenly it’s spring. One week there’s snow everywhere and the next the apple trees are budding, daffodils are blooming, the sun is shining, and Peace Corps volunteers have taken a break from beating their heads against the wall.

My host mother told me that March is like a woman. One day it is bright and cheerful and the next day it stormy and the next it’s crying. Certainly the weather will be a mixed bag, but I think the dreary days of winter are finally behind us.

But SPRING is here! And not a moment too soon. Maybe now the numbness in my toes will disappear. The sun’s rays have improved the mood of volunteers, nurtured the plants, brought light to the world, provided solar energy and much needed Vitamin D, but they have been powerless against the majority of my students and their loathing for homework and class work.

I turned 32 last week, an age that awards me even more insults and teasing from the younger volunteers. The Georgian tradition of treating your elders with courtesy and reverence has failed to rub off on my fellow volunteers apparently. I celebrated my advanced age by playing grownup. Paige and I cooked meals at a friend’s apartment in Kutaisi, including a delicious BBQ chicken pizza. We drank coffee in the morning, sipped our wine and dreamed of the day we’d be at Target purchasing kitchenware. This may not sound exciting to all of you back home, but an apartment with a hot shower, a sorbet maker and an oven that works is pretty cool to us.

Paige made the mistake of putting my birthday candles in an apple crumble fresh out of the oven and it melted the candles. The bits of wax did little to take away from the flavor and I’ve forgiven her.

As any of you who have spoken to me in recent months are well aware of, my mood has been at an all-time low. School has been less than inspiring of late. There seems to be little overall change on the horizon, but I was awarded one reassuring moment when one of my favorite students won 2nd place for our region in a nationwide essay contest. Little Ann Gorgodze’s essay on why girls are better than boys won over the judges. Her arguments were sound and persuasive apparently, much to the detriment of my gender. Ann was one of the few students from my school who participated in the contest.

I literally couldn’t wait to get to school to tell her the news. She’ll get a certificate for a prize, but I also gave her a leather journal and a small poster. I don’t know if you can read the writing on the white board behind her, but it says, “Ann Gorgodze is cool!!!”

While so many of my students have literally stopped doing any work, Ann and a handful of students in her class have continued to buck the trend and it’s their enthusiasm that keeps me returning to school day after day. Today they even sang me a belated happy birthday and I’m a sucker for such gestures.

This Saturday some of my students will be participating in a regional language competition that was created by a fellow volunteer and myself. We have 19 volunteers coming to serve as judges, which is about how many students who will be participating from my school. Last year my school did not place very high, but I’m hoping this is the year we clean up. I’m not saying we’re going to. I’m just hoping.

I’ve been having my students write essays in preparation. One 7th grader wrote a wonderful essay today. The topic was “Invite a famous person to visit your village.” Young Giorgi chose to invite Brittney Spears, despite my explanation that she’s totally crazy and would make a poor houseguest. In his letter, Giorgi offered to show her his school and village and lend her his rubber boots so she could feed the cows and slop the pigs. He offered to grill some ribs for her as a symbol of his love. I was oddly proud.

I’ve dropped a few of the classes in which no one seems to want to participate. I’ve focused my energies on the classes in which the students are eager or willing to participate and this has kept walking to school in the morning from being soul destroying.

Frequent reassessments as to how to direct one’s efforts are a constant for us volunteers. Recently I was hanging out with my friend Jeff, a volunteer in the neighboring village, and we came across some files from our first year here and practically split our guts laughing at our naiveté. There were careful outlines for a youth center, after school sports programs, various summer camps, an NGO, and a local wine festival to attract tourists. What enthusiasm! What idealism! What... the hell were we thinking? So we’ve lowered the bar a bit and are using new barometers to measure success. This should curb our disappointment.

So time seems to be moving along a little faster here (127 days to go hopefully). There has been a lull in the supras in my village, which is a welcome reprieve. Of course, just as I write this there’s a lively group of men outside my gate clamoring for my host father and I to come with them so I might have spoken too soon... never mind. I’m in the clear. My host father told him it was not the night for revelry.

In local news, the chickens of the neighborhood have been decimated by area hawks. Proper disposal of the carcasses turns out to be stuffing them in the wood stove. This comes as quite a surprise when you go to stoke the fire and discover a half charred chicken staring back at you.

But despite the death of local chickens, things here are much improved. I spent much of the day chopping firewood, an activity that gives me a sense of accomplishment. Not sure about the timing of chopping firewood now that the weather’s turned warm, but what the heck.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and hope on the horizon, and winter has turned to spring, and various other metaphors that symbolize a much-improved existence. My parents and brother will likely be visiting soon and it will be fun to show them Georgia, introduce them to my friends, fellow teachers, students and host family, as well as show them what I’ve been doing for the past 20 months.

The Legend of Omari

2008-03-13T01:47:00.000-07:00

Omari gives a toast while drinking wine from a bowl.

The legend of my host father Omari reaches far and wide. He’s not only known throughout my small village and neighboring towns, he’s also got a reputation in the neighboring city of Kutaisi. Suspicious people stop me and ask me where I’m from, what I’m doing here and where I live. I fumble through my well-rehearsed answers and they eye me warily, but once I mention who my host father is the suspicion wanes, they take a step back and sheer awe envelops my inquisitors. There eyes light up. “Omari? Ahh! Omari svams bevri!” And it’s true. My host father can drink a lot. According to local legend, 16 liters in a single supra.

My host father is the go to guy for wine and everything associated with it. He makes the good stuff. He’s the first choice to be tamada (toast master) at a supra. People have given him furniture out of gratitude for his ability to lead a supra. And he can out drink anyone. ANYONE. And the amazing thing about his ability to drink is that he does it with such ease. While many area men spend their free time practicing the art of drinking daily, Omari doesn’t. At home he simply works in the yard, eats his meals and watches television. He gets up at 8:00 and goes to work. He doesn’t party alone or at home. He has what one might call “restraint.” However, when a supra calls, and it calls often in my village, Omari steps up, throws down and leaves the locals in his wake. It’s truly a sight to behold.

My host mother teases him when he returns from a supra, or three. “You keep drinking wine like you do and you’re going to die!” Omari stands up straight, stretches his arms out and explains that he’s too strong for death.

Death does not want to knock on Omari’s door. Omari will whip its ass. Or challenge it to a drinking contest. And if Death accepted then perhaps there would be no more death and we could all live forever. My money’s on Omari.

Many a supra has been had where the participants have fallen asleep at the table, slunk off to bed or otherwise cried uncle. And all the while Omari drinks from the big cup and maintains the appearance of total sobriety. At most supras everyone is yelling and talking while the tamada tries to lead the toasts. But when Omari demands silence everyone at the tables grow quiet—except for his wife, who is just as large a personality and the tamada for the women’s supras. Whatever power Omari possesses to silence a crowd, I wish I had it for class.

Omari gives a taste of wine to his grandson at his baptism supra.

My first day in my village Omari and I walked down the road to a neighbor’s house. Omari does not talk very much, unless he’s leading a supra, so we walked in silence. My road is dusty and potholed and appears to be something out of an old western. And as Omari walked in slow measured steps the western motif grew. Walking down the road with him is like walking beside a gunslinger at high noon. Children who are yelling and playing grow silent. Dogs ambling up the road dart into the bushes. Cows stop their grazing. Neighbors bow in reverence. Omari commands respect.

In Georgia, everybody has a “patroni,” somebody who is responsible for your wellbeing and safety. It can be any male relative and having a good patroni means people are less likely to mess with you. My patroni is Omari and the world seems a lot safer knowing that this man has my back. I wish I could take him back to America with me. I still have some grudges from high school that I would like his assistance in resolving.

Recently, my friend Cuttino was at a restaurant in Kutaisi with his fiancé (a Peace Corps volunteer from Jordan) and a dozen other volunteers. It was the first time anyone had met Cuttino’s fiancé and they were holding a supra in her honor. I couldn’t come because I was attending other supras with Omari (he’s a hard guy to say “no” to). However, as we drove through Kutaisi I asked if we could stop at the restaurant briefly to make a quick toast and say hello. Omari approved so we stopped at the restaurant and Omari and I went in.

Omari is a giant. He’s well over 6 feet tall, which is huge for Georgians. But it’s not just his height, it’s his whole presence. The guy seems ten feet tall. So Omari and I walked into the room. A former restaurant owner himself, Omari is all class and he immediately went up to the waiter and explained that these Americans were his guests and he’d better take good care of them and not rip them off. Then he ordered two pitchers of wine, mocked the waiter for the high price and returned to the table to toast the soon to be bride and groom. He also told the other girls at the table not to worry, they were all very pretty and would be married soon. Toast completed, he tilted his glass back, drank it to the bottom, told them goodnight and gave me the nod that meant, “We’re out of here.” We didn’t have a lot of time. Omari was needed in a neighboring town to lead another supra. Weeks afterwards, volunteers who were at the restaurant were still talking about Omari. “That’s your host dad? Man that guy is so cool!”

There are those people in your life who will always stand out and take up a bigger piece of your memories simply because their presence is so large, their personalities so huge. Omari will always be one of those people for me. Not only is the guy as hell, but he’s also a responsible and caring man, a good husband, host father, father and grandfather. Dude is larger than life and he’s my patroni.

Omari drinks a horn of wine.

The Winter of My Discontent

2008-02-29T01:54:00.000-08:00

BIG THUMBS UP FOR ANOTHER DAY OF SNOW AND COLD

Tis the season for... well... not much really. Here in my village Winter has slammed us with some truly awful weather. Last year we had a few days of snow and subfreezing weather. This year it has just been one dumping of snow after another. Most of the homes in my village don't have gas and must heat their homes with wood stoves. The government has reduced the amount of logging in the neighboring mountains so people generally scavenge the forests for fallen limbs instead. These are dragged back to the house and we cut them using a two-person saw. I really enjoy this chore because it gives me a sense of accomplishment, something I don't get much of in my other endeavors here.
MY HOST PARENTS AND THE GRANDKIDS

My host family continues to be one of the best aspects of life here. They're funny, outgoing, warm, and generous. Occasionally the grandkids visit and when they do we light the woodstove and play with them. The kids are particularly enamored with my cell phone's ring tones.

Because of the bitter cold and lack of heat, I find myself spending a lot of time in my sleeping bag listening to podcasts. There are often supras to attend, but for the most part there is just a lot of free time, but because of the weather there's not many good ways to spend it. I'd like to sit up and write, but my fingers quickly grow numb. Also the power goes out a lot when there's snow and my computer rapidly runs out of batteries. So for entertainment I watch the neighbor's ducks wander the dirt road. I check up on the Stalin statue to see how the snow has altered his hairstyle. I watch the stars come out on clear nights and make frequent cups of coffee. On weekends I usually escape to other volunteers' sites or head to Tbilisi. My feet have been numb for six weeks now and even the occasional hot shower in Tbilisi fails to revive them. This can't be good.
ONE OF MY FAVORITE CLASSES

Winter here can sort of crush your spirit. This seems to be the case for many of my students as well. Their efforts have declined dramatically and it's not unusual for me to assign students in class work and have none of them work on it. They seem confused that I don't find their excuses for not doing the work very convincing. "Teacher, I don't want to." Well that doesn't really do it for me.

To further exacerbate my frustrations they've largely decided that they don't want to participate in the 2nd Annual Language Competition. Last year this was a huge success and one of the few genuine accomplishments I can point to for my service here. We organized it, judged, held an awards ceremony and doled out prizes. The community was actively involved and the students participated with enthusiasm. This year most of my students said they didn't want to attend and few wrote the essays that would make the eligible to enter. When students refuse to do something as simple as write a 40 word essay it makes me feel like the balance is kind of tipping in an unfair manner.

Despite their largely discouraging efforts, I have a few classes that still make coming to school feel worthwhile. My two 7th grade classes have a good number of students who are enthusiastic about English and eager to improve. This doesn't always mean they do their homework, but they still show enthusiasm. As the school year winds down over here I have to keep thinking of how I'm going to get the most out of my final months here. So everyday is spent reanalyzing the reality of school and how best to focus my energies. Hopefully these two classes will be interested in doing more in the coming months. If they don't, well it's going to be pretty discouraging.

Luckily, it seems that most of the worst of winter is over. Spring isn't too far around the corner. Perhaps my toes will unfreeze. Maybe the sunshine will awaken my students' interest in school. Perhaps my clothes will finally be able to dry in under 5 days and I can start bathing more than once a week. Who knows. At a minimum I hope that once the temperature becomes bearable I can spend my free time trying to write something up about my experience here. I'm pretty certain that the difficulties, impasses, and frustrations I feel are probably universally shared by volunteers in other countries. The roller coaster of emotion that comes with this type of service, the variety of strange and uplifting experiences, the humor of so many odd moments here, well it just seems like something that would easier to write about than other topics. And it might be nice to gain some perspective on everything I've experienced in the past 20 months.

If I were the Tamada and the toasting topics were left to my discretion I would ask everyone to raise their glasses and toast to spring. Toast to education and hard work and learning and how these things will help a person and a country move forward. Toast to warmth and heat and dry socks. Toast to combating apathy. Toast to wearing seatbelts and not passing other cars on blind corners or trying to speed on icy roads. Toast to some sort of lasting accomplishment being left behind in my village to have made this all worth while. Toast to 139 days to go until I can come back home.

Lasha's Birthday

2008-02-29T01:15:00.001-08:00

Around the time Hollywood was celebrating the Oscars those of us in my village put together a little soire of our own that was a virtual who’s who in my neighborhood. Time for Lasha’s 6th birthday party. Lasha’s a neighbor kid whose family is close with my host family. Since his last birthday Lasha has grown up a lot. He doesn’t hide behind his mother’s leg when adults talk to him and it’s been months since he’s wandered into our yard wearing a one-piece girl’s bathing suit.

LASHA

Lasha’s mother shares cow milking rights with my neighbor so I see her a lot. Lasha’s older sister is one of my students and we talk every day when we walk to school. “Ryan... I English you today yes?” Lasha’s father Skippy is sort of the neighborhood handyman and is a fixture at all the local supras. I often hear him late at night playing a drum and singing at various supras in the neighborhood. They’re good people and neighbors so I made my way there with my host family to celebrate with them.
SKIPPY & LELA TOASTING WITH HORNS OF WINE

My own sixth birthday was very different from Lasha’s. I got a baseball hat and a T-shirt and none of my dad’s friends drank 20 glasses of wine or toasted to me or danced on chairs. I also received a Velcro dartboard that stopped working after a few days, but my parents never locked arms and drank wine from oversized horns. I don’t know what young Lasha was expecting for his birthday, but he seemed pleased with the result—a supra.

Children’s birthday = supra. Funeral = supra. Weddings = supra. Christmas = supra. Pretty much any significant day results in a supra. So for Lasha’s birthday he got all the locals at his house, drinking wine and toasting late into the night. While for some it might have seemed like a rerun of most the other supras in the village (same people, same food, same wine, same toasts), those in attendance seemed to enjoy themselves thoroughly.

As per the local custom, wine glasses proved much to small for the significance of the occasion and they broke out the animal horns and filled them with wine so we could toast to Lasha with the necessary respect. When Lasha blew out the candles I don’t know what he wished for, but if it was to see me drink a giant horn of wine and say some kind words in his honor then his wish failed to come true. Lasha ran out of the room in the middle of my toast to play in a back room with his friend. But I made the toast anyway and drank my horn to the bottom. Then I listened to the 30 other men as they toasted to brave Lasha.
I DRINK THE HORN

The night continued on in this fashion although I disappointed many by refusing to drink from the horn again. “Ryan, you’re not drinking enough!” Really? That’s too bad. My sincere apologies.

A common feature at supras in my village is the well-meaning neighbor who tries to make me feel included by rambling on in Russian to explain the toasts. At this one, a local man at the supra who knew 10 words of English insisted on translating for me even though I knew what was being said. His few English words proved inadequate. “Ryan! I... you... brother... (random Russian gibberish)... wine good...drink!” He repeated this in various forms for some time.

The men continued drinking and toasting for six hours. The women sat at a different table and laughed at them. The children kept tugging on my sleeve to have me take their photograph. Finally at 2am we called it a night and we all set off into the snow for the long walk home.
NOT SURE THIS DANCE IS A TRADITIONAL ONE

Plenty of Spare Time

2008-02-23T02:28:00.000-08:00

When there's two feet of snow in the yard, no fire in the woodstove, no electricity, a broken flashlight, and you've already read all the books in your room, you find yourself without much to do.

With my laptop out of batteries I turned to my old friend iPod and cued up another podcast from The Dirtbag Diaries. For those of you not up on podcasts, they're like little radio programs you can download online and listen to while you commute to work, kill some time at the office, or while you shiver under the covers while listening to the cat chase mice in the attic.

This podcast is produced by my friend Fitz Cahall, but even if it wasn't I would still be forcing it on all my friends and family. The podcast focusses on outdoor sports, travel, adventure, etc. There's stories about soldiers who put up a climbing wall in Iraq and another about setting fire to his dead car and pushing it into the Indian Ocean. The stories are funny, touching, though-provoking and above all they're entertaining. We could all use a little more of that in our life. So if you're a bored Peace Corps volunteer or someone who likes rock climbing or traveling then give him a listen.

Check it out at http://www.dirtbagdiaries.com or download it for free from iTunes.

PARIS

2008-01-26T05:17:00.000-08:00

Paris is a city in France and it is hands down the greatest place in the world. You can eat beef carpaccio and french onion soup, ribeye steak with peppercorn brandy sauce, gelatto and apple tarts, etc. You can also pop champagne in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower on New Years, wander through museums full of priceless works of art, take a boat down the river and attend Christmas Eve mass at Notre Dame.

But even though there is no better place in the world I still returned to Georgia. And here I am. Eating cabbage soup, teaching class, and freezing. I miss central heating and fresh brewed coffee and even the chair we decorated in place of the Christmas tree we didn't have. I miss you Paris. Things just aren't the same.

Death to Piggy

2008-01-18T01:31:00.000-08:00

*Warning, there are lots of graphic photos below of a chicken being decapitated and a pig being killed and gutted. Just warning you.

During a recent conversation with my host mother she complained that killing chickens is a man’s job and her husband is often away at work so she has to do it herself. I wasn’t trying to maintain traditional gender roles, but I offered to be our chickens’ future executioner. A hollow promise indeed, but one I had to keep a few days later.

I’d just finished reading a book called “The Omnivore’s Dilemma,” in which the author paints a fairly detailed picture of our current food culture and crazy diet fads, the inhumane and unsustainable practices of industrial agriculture, the less-than-reassuring realities of organic farming, and the morality of killing things we eat (I find myself reading anything food related that I can get my hands on). Like me, the author has no problem with eating meat, but thought he should test his resolve by actually killing his food. The timing of this book was kind of odd, because like him, I was soon privy to the secrets of the slaughterhouse.

So my host mother held a large hen down on the chopping block and I raised a small axe. I’d watched my host mother kill one firsthand before and had wondered what would go through my head if I held the axe. I expected I would be ambivalent about the act, reluctant, and when it was over, slightly guilty. However, I didn’t have a lot of time to collect my thoughts on it. In less than a minute I was outside with the axe, I’d handed Paige the camera to record it, and received my instructions. And so I brought the axe down on the neck of this hen.

I’ve killed plenty of fish, bringing them up on the end of a line, extracting the hook, and then crushed their skull with a blunt wooden stick. I was always mildly reluctant about those exchanges, but felt not regret, just the knowledge that I’d ended a life to feed myself. So the chicken should have been little different, except instead of bringing it up from the mysterious depths of the sea, I was instead killing something that I’d seen wandering the yard for a year. It was a creature I’d fed breadcrumbs to and, unlike a salmon, wasn’t that excited about eating (boiled probably).

Yet the axe came down on its neck. Paige snapped the picture while looking away so I’m very impressed with her timing. I cut through the necessary parts with my first chop, but a little neck skin remained so I brought the axe down again. Blood spread across the chopping block and dripped from the neck. My host mother held the frantic body as I grabbed a large pot to put over it so it didn’t run off. It twitched and scuffled under the pot for a minute before finally becoming still and that was it. Its eyes didn’t look at me in a strange way when I killed it. I felt practically nothing. It was as natural as picking an apple. I’ve probably felt more conflicted pulling a carrot out of the ground. I found this sort of strange. (Note to Peace Corps—which forbids handling birds for fear of bird flu—I never actually touched the bird).

This is the first non-fish I’ve ever killed and it was a breeze. It didn’t trouble me in the slightest... although when I came downstairs the next morning there were a dozen chickens at the landing and for once instant I thought, “My God! They’ve come for revenge! They know what I did!” So maybe I have some pangs of subconscious guilt, but whatever.

Yet round 2 was just around the corner. Only a few days after this I was invited to my host-sister’s house where they were to kill a pig. The night before I was taken to three different supras. The drinking was heavy and in the morning I wasn’t feeling 100%. If you’re planning to attend the slaughter of a pig in the future I would recommend going without any sort of queasiness. It’s not a pleasant thing to watch.

In the villages there are many ways to kill a pig. Probably the best ways are to shoot it in the head or to bring a huge axe down at the base of their skull to sever the spine from the brain... but not everyone has such tools. I suggested a pig guillotine to my host mother and we agreed this would be very handy and humane.

A more common way is to get a group of men and hold the pig down, and then you either use a large knife to slit its throat or stab it in the heart. I’ve talked to one former Peace Corps volunteer who served in Africa who’s host family called on him to stab their pig in the heart with a pen knife. It’s a hard organ to hit with a knife so small.

I’ve heard that slitting the throat or stabbing the heart are both extremely bloody and take over a minute for the pig to die. In the meantime it makes horrible squeals and cries that are truly awful. I was told this is how we would do it. Enter feelings of foreboding and reluctance.

Luckily for me I was not asked to take an active role in the killing, although I’m sure in the pig’s final judgment he would at least find me complicit in the act, and probably didn’t care for me snapping pictures of his demise, although maybe my camera flashes distracted him from the knife in his neck. In my final judgment of the pig I found him very brave... and eventually quite tasty.

So here’s how it went: Three men dragged the squealing pig from the pen and pinned it to the ground. It seemed to have no illusions about the grim reality that lay in store. It was a big hairy hog, not at all resembling the sweet pig from Charlotte’s Web, although one couldn’t but help feel sympathy for it. One of the men took a long knife and stuck it into its neck, and then using long, quick slices he rapidly cut through the jugular, windpipe and a good portion of the neck. I was mildly shocked by the violence of it, recalling various war movies I’ve seen. The strange addition to the scene were the smiling village kids, looking at me and my camera and discomfort with what appeared to be glee. I wanted to yell to them, “I’m not recoiling in horror you judgmental little punks. I’m just aware of the loss of life and gravity of the moment.” But they and their sly grins and laughter simply didn’t see it my why.

So as the children laughed and I fixated on the pigs suffering, the butchers continued to hold the pig down as it thrashed and grunted. Blood spewed from the wound, making horrible burping and gurgling sounds. This thrashing went on for a minute and then the pig shaking body finally relaxed. So the men let go of it and stepped away. And then it grunted. The pig, empty of blood, actually grunted. And then it started kicking again. I thought maybe it was going to rise up and attack us, but it just kicked and twitched. One of the men let out a sigh, grabbed an axe and drove it deep into the gash to sever the spine. That seemed to do it. The body twitched and shook for a bit, but soon it was over.

After that, the men set the pig on a metal table and poured hot water on it to clean it and loosen the hair. They then shaved it with a knife, burned off the rest with a blowtorch, and hung it up by the ankles to clean it.

Unfortunately, the wire holding the pig up broke and it fell to the ground in a heap. I politely refrained from photographing this moment as the men sheepishly hoisted the pig back up and re-hung it. I did, however, slink off to the house to tell the family who got a big laugh out of it.

The butchers rinsed off the pig again, blow torched its skin, and burned of tips of its hooves. Soon they’d cut off the feet, the head, and gutted it. The organs spilling out of the chest cavity really brought about the reality of what had happened. Sort of reminded me of the time I followed a college Human Anatomy professor into what I thought was his office to ask about adding his close, only it was a lab room with a human cadaver cut open revealing all its insides. I’ve included a picture of that so you too can truly appreciate the similarities between our organ structures.

Once gutted, the rest of the pig was soon taken down and hacked apart with an axe. I searched in vain for where one would get the pork loin or pork chops from. USDA butchering guidelines don’t apply here. Meat is meat.

Some of it salted and placed in a pot, other pieces wrapped in plastic bags for refrigeration, others set aside as payment for the butchers, but one very enterprising butcher soon skewered some of the meat onto some thin apple branches, salted it, and began grilling the meat. They placed a branch of bay leaves on top of it for flavor and when we tasted it at the small supra that followed it was absolutely delicious.

The only down side (besides the pig’s death and the river of blood staining the yard) was that the hind legs of the pig are to be ground up (with the head) and later fried like hamburgers (cutleti). I eat this at half my meals.

“What about smoking them and making some prosciutto?” I thought. I could travel the land building smokehouses, teaching the locals of this marvelous cuisine... although since I don’t know how to do that I should try to find some Italian intern. Perhaps that’s the secondary project I’ve been searching for. That would be a good thing to be remembered for.

But, more likely, I will be recalled as the weird American guy who kept taking pictures while they killed and butchered the pig and cringed (slightly). Or perhaps I might be better remembered as the guy who made his host mother hold the chicken down when he chopped off its head. What a sissy American.

Celebrate Good Times C'mon... again and again...

2008-01-18T01:12:00.001-08:00

Georgians are not ones to shy away from celebration. Supras break out at a moments notice and there are a plethora of saints’ days to celebrate as well. In my village I find there is virtually nothing they won't celebrate. And thanks to the old calendar they used to follow, there’s also two Christmas’ and New Years. I missed the modern calendar ones since I was in Paris, but I made it back in time to celebrate the old calendar ones.

On Christmas Eve I went to church with my host mother. Snow was falling heavily and I envied the women who have to cover their heads in church. Men must take off their caps so I was freezing in the unheated church, and had to find warmth from the candles we all held.

Before that, the neighborhood children roamed the streets in small groups, knocking on doors and singing a single carol announcing the birth of Christ. For their singing, the families rewarded them with candies, fruit and small amounts of money. It's like Halloween with Jesus. At my house the boys also received a shot of liquor for their efforts. Drink up boys. It’s mighty cold out there.

When the clock struck 12 on New Years, my village erupted in fireworks and gunfire. In my room, the neighboring town of Bagdati sounded a lot more like Baghdad. I huddled in my bed while the sky filled with bullets and bottle rockets. The snow covered vineyards and hills lit up as I pulled the covers up and watched my breath turn to steam amidst the coldest winter Georgia’s (allegedly) seen in 70 years.

Some two weeks prior, my neighbors celebrated the modern calendar’s Christmas and New Years with wine filled supras and they congratulated everyone on the year to come and wished them the best. And when the old calendar New Year came, well... they did it again. I was just walking home from the village center, minding my own business, planning to take a nap, when I was suddenly dragged into a neighbor’s house that had already seen hours of revelry. I raised glass after glass to our friends, our families, our neighbors, our siblings... and on we went. Everyone deserves a good year and we toasted to them all. I slunk out far earlier than they wanted, and I’m sure they’re still busy toasting even now. When it’s this cold and the heat only comes from a wood stove in a distant room, the wine is about all one has to keep one warm.

And unlike America, where people make New Years resolutions they never carry out to diet, reduce their drinking, stop going out to parties so much, the people in my village appear to be doing the opposite, and with far greater success than the Americans and their resolutions. It seems in my village they've resolved to celebrate much more. More food, more wine, more singing and dancing, more general merriment. So the supras keep coming and there's simply no escaping it.

It just never seems to have an end. Men block my exit at the local store until I've toasted to their friends and families and the happiness and health they will have in the New Year. The cops pull up in front of my house and haul me off for a supra at a cousin's friend's neighbor's house where you toast the New Year some more. And then there's the distant village reached by snow covered roads where you get to toast again. Sometimes there are breaks. And sometimes one might attend three supras in a day. The New Year is still being celebrated. And it's January 18th. Will we still be celebrating this at Easter?

PEACE CORPS MUST CHANGE UNFAIR POLICY!

2008-01-18T00:56:00.000-08:00

Since Peace Corps Washington actually hires someone to keep an eye on our blogs, I thought I would use it as a forum to request a significant and necessary reform of Peace Corps policy that is long overdue.

For years Peace Corps volunteers have needlessly suffered because of this unfair policy. We toil and work and don’t receive this most basic consideration. For all we do, we are sorely put upon on. We suffer needlessly and it needs to stop.

Put simply, we need to have Super Bowl Sunday declared a holiday for us. Not designating it as such is patently un-American. It makes me think the Iron Curtain remains and that the terrorists have already won.

My great-great-great-great-great grandfather fought the British in the Revolutionary War to ensure his future spawn would not be deprived of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Watching football brings happiness, but since the Super Bowl occurs early Monday morning in Georgia, and since I have to teach school that day (and I’ve sort of used up all my vacation days), and the Hangar Bar in Tbilisi is the only venue that shows the game, I’m simply out of luck.

Without being able to watch the Super Bowl, Peace Corps volunteers risk losing touch with their American culture. Our morale weakens, as does our resolve and determination. Being able to join together and eat chicken wings while watching Brett Favre end the Patriot’s perfect season helps us maintain our mental health and moral fortitude.

So I call on the US Government to make Super Bowl Sunday a holiday for all Peace Corps volunteers, not just here in Georgia, but across the world. It would be fair. It would be just. It would be the right thing to do. And it would be an especially shrewd political move that would be remembered quite favorably in the coming elections.

The Romance of Paris...

2007-12-22T03:38:00.001-08:00

Since Peace Corps volunteers are among the most shameless gossipers around (myself included) it should not have come as a surprise that other people speak about my girlfriend Paige and I. However, we were a little caught off guard to hear many volunteers were speculating that we were planning to get engaged in Paris. Last year, couples that went on vacation often came back engaged so we presume that’s how the rumor got started.

However, Paige and I would like everyone to know that we are definitely not getting engaged in Paris. Although, come to think of it, if the “two months salary” rule actually applies to engagement rings, one could save a fortune since our piddly little Peace Corps stipend adds up to very little. I could just spring for a lovely chrome washer at the local hardware store, glue a glass bead to it and call it a day. So it got me thinking, what if I did propose to Paige in Paris? I wonder how that would go? I’ll set the scene for the marriage proposal in Paris that we aren’t going to have:

After a riverboat ride along the Seine we pop into a quaint restaurant with candles and white table clothes and lots of romantic ambiance. Unfortunately, I accidentally order Paige the liver pate and braised calf's head instead of the salad with blue cheese crumbles and roast chicken because I can’t read the menu and am too ashamed to admit that I can’t remember hardly anything from my one year of college French. I order another bottle of wine despite Paige not wanting it so as to better put her in the mood to say, “Yes.” To further build the romantic mood I purchase a red rose from the obnoxious salesmen who always wander into Parisian restaurants frequented by tourists and give it to Paige as the entire restaurant lets out a collective groan of disgust.

Upon leaving, we purchase matching red berets and make our way to the Eiffel Tower. Paige reluctantly puts hers on and mutters something insulting under her breath. The moon is rising and a gentle snow is falling. Paige starts to shiver and I offer her my coat—ever the gentleman. I’ve been anticipating this moment, and have thus been wearing two coats the whole time. Paige seems to think this hollows the gesture a bit. I disagree. An argument ensues. I buy her chocolates as an apology.

Upon reaching the top of the Eiffel Tower we make our way to the guardrail and look out on the most romantic city in the world (besides Las Vegas). I ask the French security guard by the railing to take our picture and he reluctantly agrees. Just before he snaps it I get down on one knee and pull out a ring of very dubious design. The Frenchman with my camera involuntarily vomits in disgust since this is the 10,000th time he’s seen this corny routine. Paige rejects me outright for such a contrived, cliché and untimely proposal. We return to Georgia and everyone mocks me.

Actually, Paige and I were a little shocked to hear the rumor of our impending engagement. So we’re trying to spread a counter-rumor that we’re actually going to Paris with the intent to break up. I’ve listed below various scenarios of our potential break up in Paris:

1) The first morning in Paris, Paige goes to the corner bakery to buy me an almond croissant. A young circus performer with gentle features and a full head of hair saddles up beside her and invites her to sit with him. Paige has never been to France and thus didn’t know just how seductive the French accent is. She falls for him in minutes and they rush off to the circus together. Meanwhile, I sit in our apartment for a week waiting for her to return, wondering all the while if it wasn’t a little rude of me to send her out to grab my breakfast while I sat on the couch watching soccer highlights.

2) Fed by rumors I’ve heard since early childhood of “a place in France where naked ladies dance and a hole in the wall where the men can see it all,” I set out early one morning in hopes of finding it, in spite of some ominous and not so veiled threats from Paige. My search comes up empty and I return to the apartment at nightfall utterly dejected. Paige is gone. There’s a note though, but quite frankly her language and tone were abusive and crude and I refuse to repeat any of it.

3) After mistakenly thinking our waiter was mocking me at the bistro where we’re dining, I develop some unexpected and fairly stubborn patriotism and insist on ordering “freedom fries” instead of “pommes frites.” The waiter and some neighboring tables take offense, an argument breaks out, things are said that can’t be taken back, World Wars are referenced (my bad), and in the melee that ensues I’m severely beaten by a dozen Frenchmen armed with pepper grinders. Horribly embarrassed, Paige walks out of my life for good and into the arms of the man who runs the late-night falafel stand around the corner.

4) Suddenly and unexpectedly overwhelmed by homesickness for Georgia, Paige shuns the many culinary delights of Paris and insists on eating all her meals at the one Georgian restaurant in Paris. Utterly and completely disgusted, I promptly dump her and go out for a crepe.

5) After an afternoon spent wandering through the dazzling former palace of a French king, I suddenly decide I want a life of couture, elegance, chandeliers, delicate appetizers, wine tasting, and especially velvet pants and those frilly shirts with the ruffled collars and wide cuffs. Basically I become quite a dandy and take to sauntering the streets while quoting extensively from Voltaire during casual conversations. Paige dumps me.

6) While sitting down to a three-course meal in a local bistro Paige falls in love with the lobster bisque, stuffed quail and crème brulee. Recognizing her heart no longer belongs to me, I accept my fate and wander off in search of a heavy rock to tie to my leg to so I can drown myself in the river. Goodbye cruel world.

7) While watching a mime perform outside the modern art museum I become suddenly inspired. Years of bouncing from one job to another in search of my life’s calling finally comes to an end. The vision of spending the rest of my life trapped in an invisible box I can’t escape from while wearing face paint and ridiculous suspenders inspires such immense joy in me I could burst. I attempt to express this to Paige, but not in words. Oh, no. Instead I do it silently, using exaggerated facial expressions and ridiculous body movements. Paige accepts my decision, but out of deep respect for my family she goes to a local gun shop (do they have those in Paris?) purchases a handgun and promptly shoots me dead. The jury rules it justifiable homicide and my parents send her a thank you card.

8) While we attend a Christmas Eve mass at Notre Dame I receive a divine calling and decide to become a Catholic priest. And apparently the church has some fairly strict rules about dating women, thus dooming our relationship.

9) We discover the apartment we’re staying at is near the graveyard where former Doors front man Jim Morrison is buried. It turns out Paige is a huge Jim Morrison fan and insists on holding a séance on his gravestone along with a bunch of degenerate burnouts and losers who keep a vigil there at all times. After witnessing 5 minutes of this disgusting scene I flee.

10) During our layover in Munich on our way to Paris I feel the land of my Nickum ancestors calling me. I insist we skip our flight to Paris to better explore the culinary wonders of Germany instead. Paige boards the flight to Paris and never speaks to me again. And I soon discover there are no more Nickums in Germany and that I’m not even very German at all. Still, I guess it beats discovering the culinary wonders of my Irish ancestors.

11) Being from Texas, Paige insists on putting BBQ sauce and ketchup on her fois gras and practically everything else she eats. Disgusted by her Texan ways I dump her, and then wander off into the rain wearing my North Face jacket in search of the nearest Starbucks while listening to Nirvana on my Ipod and thinking afterwards maybe I’ll join an anti-war protest.

12) Unbeknownst to me, I have a certain je ne se quois that French fashion models can’t resist. The constant attention I receive by these beauties drives Paige into a jealous rage that can’t be calmed. I try to reassure her, but my kind words are lost on her. She leaves me in a huff and I’m forced to into the arms of these “conventionally beautiful” women that I don’t really desire. Loneliness drives men to desperate measures.

13) Suddenly confronted by a mugger on the metro, I ditch Paige and make a hasty retreat to the back of the subway car so fast it would make a French soldier proud. Paige beats the mugger bloody and dumps me for being a coward. A coward? “When in Rome,” I always say. Or France.

Warmth and Caring

2007-12-13T03:31:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it’s easy to focus on the negative aspects of life. Sometimes we don’t reflect enough on the sunny side of things, like when one’s day is uplifted by the boy waiting at the gate of his house for the American volunteer to pass by so he can give him a freshly picked pear. Sometimes it’s the sun rising above the neighboring hills, casting the clouds in peculiar wonder. Or maybe the sounds of children laughing... err... and sometimes it’s the care package that arrives full of pre-made Indian food, CDs, Gobstoppers, Dots, Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups and a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon.

Care packages are awesome, as I think I might have mentioned a few times on this blog. And Luther Hubbard’s care package hit the mark in a way I can’t begin to explain. It was happiness in a box. And I wasn’t totally selfish with it. I passed out some peanut butter cups to the other volunteers, shared my beef jerky, and even parted with a few precious packets of Indian food. And despite Paige eating all the macaroni and cheese she received in the mail after promising to share it with me, I still gave her the box of instant red beans and rice (although she forgot it at the Peace Corps office).

When I first flew to Georgia I purchased two small bottles of Jack Daniels at the duty free store at the airport. My plan was to give one bottle to my training host family and then one to my permanent host family. I followed through on the first part, but after I noticed they just put it in a display case and never drank it I decided not to risk wasting the next bottle on my permanent host family. Instead I shared it with an American volunteer I knew would appreciate it—Heidi.

So it was with trepidation that I poured my current host father a glass of the Maker’s Mark handcrafted bourbon I received in my care package. It’s not that he doesn’t know alcohol or can’t appreciate it—that could NOT be further from the truth. It’s just that he hasn’t reacted enthusiastically to imported alcohol in the past. I brought a bottle of wine back from Greece thinking it would be a kind gesture to share it with him, as he is a man with an appreciation for wine. He took it as an insult. “Ryan, why did you buy this wine? How much did this cost? We have a storeroom full of wine. Why did you waste the money?” But he took a sip, grunted, glared at me and left the room.

So I wasn’t really sure how he would respond to whisky. He could hate it, or he could really like it, and if the latter happened, I know he could polish a fifth of 45 proof booze in the time it takes me to brush my teeth and he wouldn’t show so much as a buzz. He’s like a Superman with no kryptonite.

So I gave him a glass and explained that, silly Americans that we are, we generally sip our bourbon instead of pounding it one big gulp. He nodded suspiciously and drank half the glass in a gulp. He eyed it with a cold, judgmental stare and then returned to watching TV. “Do you like it?” I asked him. “Uhmmrrrrghhh,” he replied. Granted a long description of his impressions would be beyond my pitiful Georgian, but a simple “yes” or “no” is something I could decipher. My guess is “no,” but I suppose it’s better for me that he doesn’t care for it. And that’s mainly because it’s really cold here and I have no heat in my room. And I’ve discovered a shot of bourbon in one’s post dinner coffee does an incredible job of warming oneself. I mean it really does the trick. It’s positively lovely. Wait... that sounds kind of bad. Mom, if you’re reading this, please know I do recall how Grandpa got sort of carried away with the bourbon/coffee combo for a good number of years there and wandered off into something a medical professional might have called “alcoholism.” Don’t be startled. I haven’t made it a morning drink.

So for the coming weeks I’ll be enjoying a little bourbon in my coffee, Indian curry on my piroshkies, and listening to the latest MOP album. Thanks Luther (and everyone else in Seattle who contributed to the care package). And when the contents of it are all gone, I’ll be on my way to Paris for Christmas break and that’s the best care package I can even begin to imagine.

In addition to bourbon, I have another aid in keeping me warm here in Georgia, and that’s my Filson jacket. It’s wool. It was expensive, but it was well worth the cash. I sent them a letter of thanks and I included it below.

Dear Filson,

I’m writing to express my appreciation for the wool jacket I purchased in May of 2006. I’m currently a Peace Corps volunteer working as a schoolteacher in the Republic of Georgia. It’s a little known former Soviet republic that rarely appears in the news. Scenically located in the shadow of the mighty Caucus Mountains, winter here is bitter cold and there is simply no escape from its miserable bite. I mean it is really cold.

The infrastructure here is dilapidated and poverty is a constant problem, especially in villages like mine. This means there is no heat or insulation in the school where I work. I teach class in freezing weather and the concrete walls and single pane windows do little to keep the cold out. This jacket has been my best friend.

In winter, the family I live with heats only one room via a small wood stove. It’s also the room with the television and they pass their time watching Latin American soap operas dubbed in Georgian. And since I can’t stand soap operas, warmth comes at a price I’m deeply reluctant to pay. Your jacket allows me to sit outside under a balcony and read my history books while watching the snow come down without discomfort. The neighbors come over and shout at me to go inside before I catch my death, but I’m plenty warm in my Filson jacket. I would like to note that many locals also believe sitting on cold concrete causes infertility, luckily my jacket comes down far enough that when I sit I'm sitting on wool and my potential offspring are protected.

When I trudge through snow or rain to my school 20 minutes from my house, my jacket keeps me warm and dry, my notebooks secure in the rear map pouch (unfortunately the pouch also protects some of the learning materials we are forced to use, some of which should really be burned in a ritual ceremony to the patron saint of education, whoever that might be.

This coat is also a Godsend when I cross the yard to the outhouse, where on occasion I've squatted over a hole for hours as I suffered the horrid effects of the stomach parasites that riddled my digestive system, but all the while my Filson coat keeps me from shivering with aching cold. If only you would expand your efforts to cover medication to combat Giardia.

I’ll spare you ALL the details of the horror of diarrhea, but I sincerely wish I had purchased those oil skin pants because the ricochet off the outhouse bowl tends to splatter the calves and Lord knows it would be much easier to wash off the oil skin pants than my khakis. I’m sorry for the ugly picture, but it’s my reality.

Also, when I exit the cold-water shower (hose draped over rafter of bathroom ceiling) on a sub-freezing morning, my jacket immediately allows me to regain a good portion of my body temperature.

This coat was by far the best purchase I made before leaving for the Republic of Georgia. My other clothes have become dingy and torn, a result of harsh conditions and from hand washing them in cold water with “Barf” brand detergent. My jeans have blown out at the knees, the cuffs on all my pant legs are shredded, my sweaters and socks are riddled with holes, my shoes have quite simply given up, and even my Carhardt work pants have let me down. And not only is the blue wool of this jacket fairly fashionable, it also hides the wine stains that come from people slopping it on me at ritual feasts.

If I could do over all my pre-Peace Corps shopping I would do it exclusively at Filson. I passed on many of your products because of the high prices, but I have repaid those costs in suffering and the actually money spent replacing my destroyed clothes with inferior items from the local bazaar. Do you make underwear? I don’t recall seeing those in your shop, but could really use some boxer shorts.

In today’s throw-away-culture, quality and durability are rare features in anything we buy. I’m glad there are still companies like yours that continue to produce products that are built to last. And I can’t even begin to express my thanks for keeping me warm. That may sound kind of trivial, but day after day with no escape from the chill it really means something significant. It’s so damn cold here. At times it feels like a camping trip in the snow that will never end. They don’t sell hot chocolate in stores in my village and I don’t want to substitute the vodka they sell in its place.

So keep up the good work and thanks again. You guys truly rock.

Sincerely,

Ryan Nickum

Thanksgiving

2007-12-08T03:25:00.001-08:00

Making scalloped potatoes.
After many weeks confined to our sites, as we waited for the political situation here to calm down, my fellow Peace Corps volunteers and I were finally freed from captivity and traveled to a hotel complex on a lake near Tbilisi. The purpose was our safety and security conference, but I’d be lying if I said my primary focus was our Thanksgiving dinner.

The whole thing was a lot of fun. It gave us a chance to catch up with all our friends, as well as get to know the new group of volunteers a little better. We were able to use the hotel’s kitchen to cook Thanksgiving dinner in accordance with our American customs and traditions. That meant the turkeys were baked instead of boiled, the potatoes were garlic mashed and scalloped instead of fried, and the pumpkin wasn’t served boiled and salted.

The hotel staff looked on with a mixture of curiosity and horror as we cooked, scorched pans, started grease fires, and slopped food on the floor. However, I suspect most of the judgment was reserved for the many vegetarian dishes being made. Normally, vegetarians are guaranteed to ruin Thanksgiving with their tofurkeys and boiled sprouts and brown rice. Vegetarianism is less a product of principles and stems more from the inability to appreciate texture and flavor. However, our vegetarians managed to make tasty side dishes instead of bland crap so I should probably take back all the nasty things I said about them.

The lake by our hotel.
After many hours of work we sat down to a huge feast, complete with a turkey on every table. We ate and we ate and we ate and we were very thankful. Our director even kept the kitchen open late so we could come back at midnight for turkey sandwiches.

In addition to the traditional food, but we even pulled together a traditional touch football game. Peace Corps volunteers are just as athletic as you can probably imagine, and even washed up and out of shape ex-jocks like myself failed to prove any athletic prowess. However, the game came as a huge relief after almost a year of no physical activity whatsoever and despite all the dropped passes and bumbling it was competitive and fun. The rutted field was challenging, but one could screen a defensive back off the pine trees that blocked much of the field. I even managed to get a mild black eye when I crashed into another guy while tripping over someone. So I added that to a big scratch on my head incurred when I tripped over a chair when I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, as well as some weird lump on my hand that probably will have to be surgically removed in the coming months. I’m starting to look sort of scary

Nicholas tries to act indifferent to Lyssa and Paige dumping an entire container of cloves into the pumpkin pie filling.

When my girlfriend Paige wandered over with friends to watch, the other guys I was playing with even let me make an interception to impress her. It did not. But while I relived my high school glory, Paige chose to pass on hers and refused to offer up any cheerleading cheers despite everyone egging her on.

Thanksgiving provided the perfect opportunity to unveil the 2007 Dimi vintage and in a taste test against bottled Georgian and Spanish wine I felt strongly that mine was superior. So either my taste buds are deteriorating rapidly or else they’re influenced by my pride as an amateur vintner. Nobody else agreed that my wine was the best, but everyone thought it tasted pretty good.

Tilling the Land

2007-12-08T02:59:00.000-08:00

Stacking corn stalks for winter cow feed.

Some days school can be discouraging. There’s only so many times you can chastise an entire class for cheating or encourage them to do their homework and participate in class. Sometimes it just feels like there are no tangible results for all your work. So when you walk home and wonder, “What did I accomplish today?” you feel just a touch of despair and helplessness. And that’s why it’s a welcome change when there’s manual labor at home. It takes a lot of begging to be allowed to help since even though I’ve lived her for over a year I’m still considered a guest in many ways.

Today I used a two-man saw to turn logs into firewood. A heavy snow had brought down numerous branches in a nearby forest so my host father and a friend had brought a bunch back. It felt good to break a sweat on a cold winter day. My host mother came home while we were taking a break and she good-heartedly chastised her husband for being tired. “Oh, you say you’re a strong man because you can drink more wine than anyone, but you saw wood for ten minutes and you’re exhausted. You are not a strong man. You’re a woman.” He countered back by threatening to plant an axe in her skull. This banter continued for the next two hours while we worked. I should mention that they are both really funny and this is just sort of how they flirt.

Me and Omari shelling beans by the wood stove

A neighbor came over and saw us working and commented, “You are giving your American a lesson in Georgian village work. Very good.” And I suppose it was. And maybe I should be more sympathetic to my students, because even after a few hours of work I was still screwing up the timing of the two-man saw and bending the stupid thing at horrible angles that made my host father cringe.

These lessons in Georgian village life make up much of my favorite parts of living here. Making wine, chopping wood, stacking corn stocks, shelling beans, all are welcome breaks from the general monotony. My host family is really resourceful and they make brooms from shrubs tied around a long stick. Showers are made from bits of hose tied up to hang from the rafters. Wild herbs are gathered and dried and high grain alcohol is cooked up in a still from the dregs of our wine making. And my host family is continually perplexed by my interest in this. The marvel at my electronic gadgets and I at their ability to can food and pluck a chicken.

Paige getting a tutorial in churchilla making from my host mother Lela.

SNOW

2007-12-08T02:43:00.000-08:00

Five inches of snow recently dropped on beautiful downtown Dimi.

Walking to school along my rutted, puddle filled road requires a careful eye to keep from stepping in puddles and cow pies. It gets a lot harder when everything is covered in snow. It's like a minefield.

The snow gave the Stalin statue in my village a lovely makeover and he took on the look of a Polynesian warrior. I got a dirty look from a local guy while I took the picture.

The Ongoing Saga of Dogs

2007-11-18T01:38:00.000-08:00

There are many subplots to my life here: Supras, students cheating on homework, dreaming of food, etc. A frequent one is the ongoing saga of dogs, generally filled with tragedy and sadness.

ME & SOKO

To recap:
1. Witnessing organized dog fight in gas station parking lot.
2. My host father shooting a rabid dog outside our gate.
3. People I know and like kicking puppies for fun.
4. A puppy I rescued from drowning in a ditch I later found mortally crippled, allegedly by some evil boys who rejoiced in throwing it high in the air to crash into the pavement. I saw it dead in the road a few days later.
5. Feeding bits of bread to the small dogs who’ve lost legs when hit by cars. The sight of their exposed bones and fleshy wounds is truly awful.
6. My cocker spaniel Jesse littering our yard with stillborns.
7. Jesse later giving birth to four puppies in winter, three of which died of cold before I finally convinced my host family to put the last remaining one in a store room so she wouldn’t freeze to death as well. This puppy, Soko (Georgian for mushroom) survived and became our second dog.

As if all of this wasn’t enough, well... the saga continues. My cocker spaniel Jesse has been missing for over a week. She was looking haggard and lethargic for the previous two months and probably wandered off to some distant field to die. I’ve searched the neighborhood but can’t find her. RIP brave Jesse. I’ll never forget how I used to sneak you chicken bones under the table at outdoor supras. And I’ll miss the way you followed my about and put your head on my knee while I read in the yard. I don’t know what I’ll do for entertainment now that I can’t count on you going into heat and getting to hurl rocks at all your potential suitors who would sneak in the gate to mate with you. The absence of the flea-bites I endured when I used to pet you will be my only conciliation.

On top of that, my puppy Soko suddenly went missing two days ago. On the way home from school yesterday, while scanning the sides of the road for Jesse’s corpse, I spotted Soko in a neighbor’s vineyard. She was sitting in a puddle of vomit and bleeding from the ass. She couldn’t move, so I carried her home and laid her by the front door. When I came out of the house to check on her she’d somehow made it to the upstairs porch and was curled up outside my door. I tried to give her water, but she sat unmoving. I petted her for a while, until the rain began to pour and then wrapped her in an old T-shirt and carried her to the doghouse. She sat there all evening, staring blankly out into the rain, refusing food and water. Meanwhile we ate dinner and toasted to Georgian peace and to family and children. I proposed a toast to dogs, but everyone seemed to think I was joking and it was rejected.

SOKO HANGING OUT NEXT PART OF A STILL FOR MAKING TCHA TCHA

That night I texted my friend Jeff who’d joined in a few of my pathetic attempts to save puppies. He replied, “When will we, meager humans that we are, cease thinking that we can play the part of God?”

That’s probably good advice because this morning when I went to check on Soko I found her dead in the doghouse where I’d left her. I knew her fate when I came down the stairs and saw my host mother peeking out the window to watch my reaction as I walked to the doghouse. Poor Soko, it seems, was never meant to be. She was not the brightest dog by any stretch of the imagination, but she was loyal and earnest and mine. Sure she didn’t grasp the concept of chasing a tennis ball, preferring instead to gnaw on my shoe laces, but I really liked the little guy. Her death will save me hours of washing my pants, because brave Soko never understood she wasn’t allowed to jump on me with muddy paws. It doesn’t matter how many times you hit her in the head with a magazine, she just never understood. And I guess the outhouse will by tidier now that Soko’s not around to pull out all the used toilet paper from the bucket and distribute it throughout the courtyard.

If this was America I could have taken Soko to the vet, or at the least, I could have brought her inside to comfort her in her final hours. She wouldn’t have died all alone in the cold of her doghouse. But this is not America and little Soko died all alone in her doghouse. It seems I’m still a touch sentimental when it comes to dogs.

A few hours after I found her dead, Soko’s body remained in the doghouse, stiff as a board. Her eyes were open and looking out sadly at the world. The rain was really coming down and my host father insisted we wait for it to let up before showing me where to bury her.

When I returned home it was already dark and still pouring. I convinced my host father to ignore the weather and show me where to bury her. Reluctantly he agreed and I placed Soko in the corn sack my host father gave me and we wandered through the muddy fields to reach a spot by an irrigation ditch. I broke his shovel within a minute and my host father insisted on digging the rest of the very shallow grave himself. The hole filled with water as he worked so when I placed Soko in her grave we had to put rocks on her to force her to the bottom. We covered her with mud and then trudged off through the rain.

Because it was dark, I didn’t realize my host father had covered the corn sack with motor oil so other dogs wouldn’t smell her and dig her up. I was carrying the sack over my shoulder and thus my jacket ended up covered in oil. I spent the next hour scrubbing it off with gasoline and even after washing it thoroughly with detergent it still smells flammable. So even in death Soko is still ruining my clothes.

Once home there was another small supra and at this one I snuck in my toast to dogs, piggybacked onto a toast for one of the neighbors present. Everyone thought that was really funny. During the supra they taught me a Georgian expression. When something or someone dies you say, “They went to salt,” which is their funny way of saying they won’t be coming back. I guess the equivalent would be “pushing up daisies.” I don’t know why this cheered me up.

So this whole dog business is just getting depressing. I’d become a cat person if I thought it would be better, but cats fare even worse here. People generally like dogs, although most refuse to touch them, but there seems to be across the board loathing for cats. I’ve seen kittens punched by kids for fun. Once I rescued a kitten from a menacing hoard of shouting boys and the pit bull that was trying to kill it. I brought her home and sat in front of the TV petting her while my training host family stared at me like I was crazy. She wandered around our yard for a few days until she was eventually disappeared by my training host family.

“Where’s the cat?” I asked them. “Oh... uhm... we don’t know,” they all replied while averting my gaze and then hurrying off to busy themselves in another part of the house, away from my judgmental glare.

Maybe I should get a bird. Or maybe it’s best just to swear off animals all together until I’m back home. That’s the probably the best course of action.

SOKO, DEAD IN HER DOG HOUSE

NOT SO GREAT UNDERWEAR CAPER

2007-11-18T01:33:00.000-08:00

Georgia is a country of song and dance, ancient traditions, thousands of acres of vineyard, and incredible mountains... It's a spectacular country, but it’s an awful place to buy underwear.

But Georgia is where I find myself amidst a terrible and worsening underwear shortage. Quite stupidly I left a bag of dirty laundry at the hostel I stay at when I’m in Tbilisi. It probably looked like a bag of garbage and inside were most of my boxer shorts. When I returned the following week to claim the bag, it was gone, probably thrown out by the cleaning lady. I will not even entertain the notion that someone willingly stole my dirty underwear. That is just sick.

This has turned out to be quite tragic, particularly as the weather has turned cold and rainy and it takes days for my laundry to dry. As I type this, my four remaining pairs of damp boxers hang on the clothesline. I have two pairs of tighty-whiteys to see me through until they dry. The worsening weather does not bode well for a man in my predicament.

The underwear at my local bazaar all come in inane patterns and with drawstrings. They look like cutoff hippie pants that gray ponytailed men wear at rallies to legalize marijuana while they play with their twirling sticks and try to fend off another acid flashback. Then there are some wierd thongs for men that made their way here from Europe. I’m not a man of fashion, but I am a man of comfort and this underwear simply won’t do. Of all the minor disasters I’ve endured in Georgia this one... well I guess it’s not that bad, but I really would like some boxer shorts.

Thirty-one years old is kind of late in life to ask your mom to buy you some underwear. But is there any age when it’s okay to ask a total stranger to send you some, because that’s where I’m going with all of this. Perhaps some random reader will take pity on this noble volunteer. Wouldn’t that be a fun tax-deductible donation to explain to an auditor? “It says here you spent $30 on an underwear donation?”

According to the little map feature on the blog I have readers in Israel, Australia, Japan, literally all over the world. Not many readers, but still.

Seriously, will someone please send me some underwear? I hate to be a bother, but the sight of those four sad pairs of boxers dripping water as they hang on the clothesline is depressing. On one pair the elastic stitching has even come unraveled. Please send me some boxer shorts (waist size 32-34). Please. I’m begging you.

Ryan Nickum, PCV
C/O Peace Corps Georgia
PO Box 66
Tbilisi 0194
Republic of Georgia

A Vintner Is Born

2007-10-27T05:07:00.000-07:00

The last weekend was like something out of a Peace Corps brochure: An idyllic village setting, young American volunteers learning a tradition going back thousands of years, reaping a harvest of the fertile land, collaborating with the natives on a common goal. It was inspiring. Yep, we made wine.

Last year I missed the harvest and I’d promised myself there was no way I was going to miss this one. For the past month I wandered my host family’s vineyard, checking the grapes’ progress. I continually put off a dentist appointment and badgered my host father incessantly about when we’d make wine. “Maybe tomorrow Ryan... Perhaps next week... Maybe when it stops raining... When the weather is better... Soon, Ryan! Soon!”

I thought maybe there was some ideal time, some date dictated by the moon, tradition or the religious calendar. In truth, it just came down to a bit of sun, because my family does not like working in the rain or mud if they don’t have to. There is a sort of ancient wisdom to that.

Finally the day came and my school had the good sense to cancel classes for a couple days so the teachers and students could harvest the grapes and make wine. For three days my host family and I picked and pressed grapes, and I learned how to make wine. Since then I’ve taken to calling myself a “vintner.” My sentences now begin with, “Before I was a vintner...” or “Now that I’m a vintner...” And Paige just rolls her eyes.

Georgian village wine making methodology is perfect for a beginner like myself. This isn’t the wine making that appears in wine commercials. There is no sophisticated and pretentious Robert Mondavi-type, holding the grapes up to the sun, analyzing the coloring in a snifter, or rhapsodizing about tannins and sugar content and such. It’s more like the cider pressings of my youth. Just throw everything in the press and if the mud and worms and rotten berries get mashed up also, then it’s just a little more flavor and nutrients. In this wine you’ll be hard pressed to detect a hint of oak or cherry undertones. If you’re trying to place that subtle flavor it’s probably just a splash of mashed spider, a dollop of mud, or the trace flavor off the tread of my host niece’s sneakers.

My host father Omari played the role of Mr. Miyagi to my Daniel-son. He did his best to explain the details, allowed me to take part in all aspects of the process, tolerated my frequent photographing, and put up with my repeated inquiries and my note taking. And this wasn’t some academic anthropological study. My curiosity had much purer motives: I just really wanted to learn how to make wine.

At first I don’t think they thought I was serious about it, but after I kept waking up early and working beside them through the day they realized I wasn’t just being polite, but was keenly interested in it. My now tender teacher-hands blistered and became grape-stained. Soon my clothes were a Jackson Pollack painting of splattered juice and grape puree.

[NEIGHBOR IN BURIED CLAY POT TRADITIONALLY USED FOR STORING WINE]

At the start of the third day, when it became clear my enthusiasm wasn’t wearing off, Omari told me that he’d let me make a batch of red wine for myself. “Ryan, I don’t like red wine. When I drink, I drink a lot and after a couple liters of red it makes my heart race and my head hurt. I prefer white, but if you want red, this batch is for you. You can drink it all winter.”

So we made a batch for me and when that was done he took notice of Paige’s interest in the process as well. “Follow me,” he instructed us. We walked with him to a little vine-covered archway in a neighbor’s yard. “These are Saperavi grapes. We’ll pick them, press them, combine them with your red the wine we make will be your and Paige’s. Wine from this grape sells for $100 a bottle in Europe.”

Saperavi wine, both red and white, is what comes in actual glass bottles at restaurants in Tbilisi. It is not generally sold in 2 liter Coke bottles like the other stuff. We treated these grapes with reverence. Unlike the others, we left the partly rotten bunches on the vine, picked only the fullest grapes and discarded the stems and smallish grapes. Spiders and worms were searched out and discarded. Then we mashed them and placed them in a large bowl. Later we mixed the two together, about 15 gallons in all. I guess I have my winter cut out for me.

When the work was over my family was relieved, but I wanted to make more, not that the 300+ gallons wasn’t more than enough. Currently the wine is still juice, but if the bubbling in the glass bottles and the sour smell in the storeroom is any indicator, it is rapidly fermenting and turning to wine. I go in a few times a day to check on them, to watch the sediments drop, the bubbles rise and fizz, the chemical changes taking place. You can actually here it when you walk in the room, the low buzz of the fermenting.

And even though the wine making is over, we still have to make tcha-tcha, a homemade and very potent alcohol derived from the boiled refuse of pressed grape. I’m looking forward to watching my host father light a fire and put his big copper still to use. I’m not as excited about having to drink any of that toxic swill.

So this was probably my favorite weekend in Georgia and I didn’t want it to end. I want to go on making wine now that I have the general know-how. So let me announce my intention to continue this back in America. If others are interested, we could buy grapes wholesale in Eastern Washington and use the cider press on Bainbridge to press the grapes. We could form a little co-op of interested folks to go in on the large glass bottles to hold the wine and then store it in my parents’ basement (they’ve already consented). We could produce quite a supply. Pojken? Jesse? Fitz? Luther? Derek and Jennifer? Surely Allison and Luka would want to make wine for their growing supras, right? Anyone interested?

If you are, Paige and I can show you how it’s done. After all, we’ve apprenticed at the feet of the people who invented wine. We’re steeped in a tradition going back thousands of years. We’re vintners now.

2007-10-12T23:05:00.000-07:00

FIRE!

I have no classes on Thursdays so I was relaxing in my yard reading an article from a five-year old copy of The New Yorker. Suddenly the afternoon’s calm was broken by loud crackling and popping from somewhere nearby. My host father ran to the road to look. Someone passing by yelled, “Come quick, there’s a barn fire down at the old Kapanadze place,” or something of the sort.

Most everyone in the neighborhood rushed down the road to find a small barn engulfed in flames. With no hose or source of water, we rushed to remove any flammable items near the barn so the fire didn’t spread. We ran to and fro, carrying away heaps of dried corn stalks that had been laid against the fence to dry. Some pulled out the fence posts to make room for the fire truck. Busy as we were, neighbors still stopped to shake hands and greet one another and ask about each other’s families.

The fire department arrived a few minutes later in two fire engines still painted with CCCP on the side. They rushed in and turned the hoses on. Neighbors walked up to the firemen to point out spots they felt the hose should be focused on. Children crawled under the fence to stand beside the firemen as they worked. I jogged home to grab my camera and began taking pictures of their efforts. The villagers found that quite amusing.

My host mother heard from the neighbors that I’d been one of the first to help at the fire and seemed quite pleased. I text-messaged a few other volunteers to tell them about it. One wrote back, “That’s like a story I read about in one of those Peace Corps magazines.”

Actually it wasn’t very dramatic. My efforts were really minor and the danger was nonexistent. But let’s not discount the minor scratches on my arm from the corn stalks or that I’ll have to wash my clothes because they reek of smoke. And I’ll have to wash them by hand. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a very big deal.

But since I won’t be home for another 9+ months, I have lots of time to dream up dramatic details. Don’t be surprised if the next time you hear this story it includes singed hair and clothes, me rushing into the flames to save a litter of puppies, and the locals carrying me home on their shoulders while singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

Which nobody can deny.
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RUBBING ELBOWS WITH BIG SHOTS

Last year’s Breast Health Awareness event in Kutaisi was a big success and this year was no different. Hundreds attended, as well as the first lady of Georgia, the US Ambassador and dozens of Peace Corps volunteers. The event is an awareness campaign to encourage Georgian women to get screened for breast cancer. The attendance of the first lady was especially helpful for drawing media attention to the event. The TV news came in force, but she still had time for a brief interview by a Peace Corps volunteer named Ryan Nickum.

Last year my role was to photograph the event. I was informed by the event’s organizers that what they really wanted were good photos of the 1st lady, so I turned into the paparazzi and took as many photos as I could. More than a couple times I caught her looking at me inquisitively, as if asking herself, “Who is this creep?” Either she didn’t remember me from the previous event or else she has incredible patience. She politely accepted my request to interview her and gave all her answers in English. The interview was difficult, as I had to do it while walking backwards since she was at the front of the walk.

In the end I walked away with some really good quotes, which was especially helpful because I’d failed to turn on my audio recorder when I interviewed the US Ambassador and thus didn’t have any quotes from that. My journalism skills are rusty.
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY MANANA

Manana is the hardest working woman in Georgia. She was our technical trainer and is also a teacher in a local school in my area. She’s been incredibly helpful when Jeff (my site-mate) and I try to do any secondary projects. In addition to teaching school, she privately tutors dozens of students after school, plans her lessons at home, and maintains a household. She puts our work ethic to total shame.

In Georgia, women do all the cooking, even on their birthdays. Last year Jeff and I promised to cook her dinner the next year on her birthday. Manana and her family were busy with the grape harvest when Jeff and arrived. Her husband and youngest son gave us a tour of the wine making operation and let us taste the various vintages. Fresh grape juice is delicious, as is the 4 day old white and 2 day old red and the year old white...

Then we started cooking. We don’t know how to make Georgian food so we made scalloped potatoes, garlic cheese bread, tomato and cucumber salad, and chicken in a mushroom cream sauce. We were quite proud of our culinary achievement and Manana was very pleased.

However, most Georgians do not like different food. They’ve developed a cuisine over the years that they are quite fond of and feel no need to supplement it. I once gave my host sister a piece of cheddar cheese and she spit it out in the yard. So our dinner wasn’t exactly scarfed down, but everyone was polite. I hope Manana likes leftovers.
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ENGLISH CLUB

Last year I tried to start a couple of English clubs after school. The plan was to show movies, read magazine articles and have conversations in English about it. It’s been successful at many other schools, but I had no luck. Students did not attend.

This year I tried again. I asked a number of older students if they’d be interested in such a club. They were enthusiastic and promised to come. So at 2:30 on Wednesday I hosted the club in the English classroom. The picture below shows the level of attendance and my success.

COMIC BOOKS ANYONE?

2007-10-12T23:02:00.000-07:00

COMICS
Getting through to the many young boys in my classroom continues to prove extremely difficult. They’re easily distracted, restless, endlessly doodling, and prone to making wisecracks. They make my days at school incredibly difficult.

However, I’m not exactly one to talk. Even at 31 years of age I’m much the same as these boys when forced to sit through a long lecture. At a recent conference of volunteers I was exactly the same. Listening to presentations by Peace Corps my mind wandered, my feet bounced under the table, I made wisecracks, and found myself doodling endlessly. Maturity seems to come slowly. So I’m sympathetic. Still, there must be some way to harness this restless energy...

So let me announce the Comic Book Project.

My plan is to gather together comic books from the America and any I can find in Georgia. Following that I will make a short how-to book showing how to draw a comic, examples of popular comics, and a brief history of the genre. The book will include plenty of blank pages so students can draw their own. The kids can do this at home or in an after-school club.

I tried to have students draw comics during a camp for kids in my training village last summer, but the kids didn’t understand the concept. On the fly, I quickly drew a three-panel comic, detailing the untimely death of a goat at the hands of a bear, the first thing I could think of. I think the text read: “Bear meets goat. Bear fights goat. Goat dies.”

The little light bulb above their heads turned on and they quickly settled down with pens and paper and detailed numerous unfortunate demises of various animals. An eagle killing a rabbit, a cow dying, two dogs fighting and numerous other violent comics that ended in a grisly death. Not what I was intending, but the drawings were good and despite their morbid theme, kind of funny. I will try for less violent themes this time.

Before coming to Georgia, I’d volunteered with 826 Seattle, a center offering instruction and encouragement in creative writing, after-school tutoring, and various workshops for school groups on how-to write short stories. The center is one of a handful throughout the country, originally created by David Eggars, author of “Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius” and head of the publishing firm McSweeney’s. It’s an awesome organization and if you have cash burning a hole in your pocket I suggest you donate to them. To attract kids the front of the center is a space travel supply store. In another city it’s a pirate supply store.

One of the programs 826 Seattle offers is a comic book workshop. I contacted them and they agreed to send me materials so I could do it with my class. These materials never made it, probably because the mail was waylaid in Russia and thanks to their sudden embargo of Georgia the material never arrived. It could still show up, as others have suddenly received packages and mail a year after they were sent. Paige actually received a birthday card from her grandmother that was sent a year ago, arriving coincidently exactly on her birthday this year.

But don’t let the anarchy of the mail system frighten you away from sending comics, pens, or anything that might be useful to this project. Things have been arriving a lot more regularly of late. I have to do a bunch of paperwork with Peace Corps before I can accept donations, but it isn’t too soon to start collecting them. My hope is to make this bigger than just my individual school. I want to make it available to other schools in Georgia as well.

There is no one-way to reach students and I think one that targets the restless and creative youngsters is necessary. Drawing comics is a great way for them to develop focus and express themselves creatively. You might be surprised with what these kids come up with. And once they turn in some finished product I hope to put it on the Internet and you could see just what they developed. So if you’ve got some old comics laying around, or if you happen to be a generous soul who wouldn’t mind purchasing some, or if you’re a creative sort who likes to draw your own, please start collecting them and I’ll soon let you know how to send them to me. Thanks!

And somebody tell Matt Wright because that ludite has abandoned his email account.

Materials can be sent to me at:
Ryan Nickum, PCV
C/O Peace Corps Georgia
PO Box 66,
Tbilisi 1094
Republic of Georgia

ART & FRIENDS

2007-10-12T23:01:00.000-07:00

ART & FRIENDS
Recently my friends Allison and Luka Dvaladze visited from Bainbridge Island. Allison (formerly Allison Ekberg) lived in Georgia for a number of years, where she met her Georgian husband Luka. Both gave me a lot of good advice before coming here.

Even before I’d applied to Peace Corps, every time I would spot Allison I’d always corner her to hear about her latest adventures from some strange land called Georgia.

Luka and Allison even took me to a Georgian supra in Seattle a few weeks before I left. It still is the best Georgian food I’ve ever had.

About a month ago they were both in Georgia and they invited me out for Allison’s birthday at a restaurant near Tbilisi. The night was very unlike the supras I experience in the village. The conversation was multilingual (Russian, English, Georgian). Those in attendance were mostly Georgian artists, the drinking was moderate, and the toasting was casual, sincere and unforced. The restaurant was spectacular. It was built into a ravine, with cozy little tables separated from one another by narrow stone paths, running along a small creek. The trees were wrapped in Christmas lights, there was a view a large lake, and the service was actually really good.

Living in a village provides one view of Georgia, but this dinner provided an insight into a more educated and cosmopolitan side of Georgia. The Tbilisi crowd is a totally different set and I’ll remember the evening fondly for a long time to come.

Some of the artists in attendance gave Allison a couple of paintings and I was really impressed. Some of them have showings in the U.S. and England. One artist couple gave me a catalogue of their work and I’ve since cut pages out and decorated my wall with them. I’m not in the income bracket to purchase their work, but I’ve included links to their websites below. Some are probably affordable, but others cost thousands of dollars. I won’t get any commission if you buy some.

www.artby-mm.com
www.nickjaparidze.com
www.art.ge

LOCAL TRAVEL

2007-10-12T22:29:00.000-07:00

KAZBEGI
Recently Paige and I went to one of the top tourist attractions in Georgia, the famed Mt. Kazbegi. It’s about 15,000 feet high and according to legend it’s the mountain Prometheus was chained to as punishment for giving fire to man.

We shared a rickety cab from Tbilisi with some Israeli tourists, traveling along a rutted gravel road for most of the way. The drive looked a lot like Eastern Washington, but the mountain was unlike anything I’d seen before. We didn’t make it to the summit, but we did hike up to the church that rests in its shadow.

The soviets had built a cable car up to the church, but the Georgians took offense to this and tore it down. So we hiked. Cows ambled along steep hillsides, grasshoppers shot across the path and caterpillars grazed amidst the grass and shrubs. The view was spectacular and it was nice to finally get some exercise without being menaced by stray dogs. Jogging is simply impossible in my village unless I want to be eaten.

Georgians include pagan traditions in their orthodox Christianity so there are plenty of remnants from sheep sacrifices around the church. People will hike a sheep up to the church, march it around three times and then slit its throat. The meat is boiled and then served at a feast. Paige and I didn’t slaughter any sheep on our hike, but we saw plenty of evidence that others had: a severed sheep head, bits of fur and hoof strewn about a pit and various other grisly evidence of slaughter.

Many people probably think this is gruesome, but for me I keep coming back to the fact that they boil the meat. That is no way to eat lamb. Prior to coming to Georgia I made lamb kebabs from a Georgian cookbook I found (The Georgian Feast). I marinated the meat in pomegranate juice, garlic, thyme, olive oil, salt and pepper. It was delicious. I’ve never had anything of the sort since coming here. This is a tragedy. In fact, almost everything I found in that book has never shown up on a table I’ve sat at. Who the hell wrote that book and just where did the author visit? Are their two Georgias? Seriously, where are the marinated lamb kebabs?

But Kazbegi was beautiful.
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SAIRME
About an hour up the road from my village is Sairme, renowned throughout Georgia and the former Soviet Union for its medicinal water and beautiful nature. I think “Sairme” means wild goat or sheep or something. I lose a lot in translation. When I order rabbit kebabs in a restaurant I still make little bunny hears with my hands and hop about so the waitress understands.

Paige and my host family hopped in my host brother-in-law’s car and bounced along the rutted roads, pausing occasionally at my host father’s insistence so I could photograph various vistas. We eventually stopped beside the road to have a little picnic. I spent a good amount of time photographing my host sister’s kids.

Because we drank wine at the picnic we couldn’t drink the medicinal waters of Sairme, which tastes something like dipping a cup into a sulfur bath. That didn’t stop them from bottling it up and trying to force it on me in the days since. I keep coming up with excuses not to drink it, but I know that soon I’ll have to get into that awful stuff. It’s like a cold cup of fart, but it’s very good for kidneys and liver.

The Collapse of the Bald Birja

2007-09-14T03:42:00.000-07:00

In the beginning there were three bald men. The number was three and it was good. They were myself, Chris, and Mark. Amidst a conference room full of cheerful, idealistic young volunteers, it was these three that had no hair. They were bald. The tops of their heads had grown fallow. There was some snickering by the others. They sought comfort in a brotherhood of baldness. Strength in numbers if you will.

So these three joined forces to create the Bald Birja (Birja is a Georgian term for a bunch of dudes squatting together in the road, eating sunflower seeds and enjoying banter and cha cha). Three bald men. Together in unity... until they were ripped apart by events beyond their control.

The first to go was Chris. He was sent packing for some undisclosed medical thing. We mourned his absence. But then some good news, there was some sort of hiccup and he will soon be reunited with his fellow PCVs, as well has fiance Jocelyn--see above picture. And not a moment too soon, because we just learned we lost Mark.

I firmly believe that Mark is the baldest of the three, but just barely. Mark would claim I am. The only things Mark is worse at then growing hair is apparently ice skating. During a crash on the ice a few months ago, Mark bruised his back, or so he thought. X-rays showed he actually broke two vertebrae. So it was determined that Mark would be sent home. But before he could depart, Mark apparently thought to take a cue from Chris and get engaged himself. And so he did, because such is the raw charisma of the Bald Birja, that women fall over themselves as they scramble to lock themselves into holy matrimony with them. It is a testament to my strength that I've been able to keep these clamoring women at bay. I'm truly remarkable.

So Mark returns to America, to nurse his ailing back with micro brews, until such time as he becomes fit enough to return to Georgia to claim his bride. He will be missed.

So that leaves me, all alone, amidst a crowd of volunteers with fine manes. This could change if they all keep getting lice, and believe me they are all getting lice, but still, for now I am alone.

There is no Bald Birja anymore, at least until Jeff goes totally bald, but that'll be at least 3 months. So for the time being I'm going to abandon the Bald Birja and attempt to fit in with the harrier members of my group.

Farewell dear Mark. God speed Chris. See you soon Jeff. The Birja may be over but the balding continues.

Personal Growth

2007-08-23T07:06:00.000-07:00

Peace Corps brochures often advertise the profound personal developments volunteers undergo during their service abroad. One the slogans on their recruitment posters reads, “Sure, I made in a difference in their lives, but not half as much as they made in mine.” It’s too early to assess how much personal growth I’ll undergo here, but in recent months I’ve noticed another type of growth—increased chest hair.

I haven’t asked the doctor about this, but is this normal? Do most 31-year-olds suddenly experience dramatic increases in chest hair? Or might this be a sign of bad things to come? How come I continue to lose hair on my head, but am now growing it on my chest. Good or bad, if anything, this is completely unfair.

What causes this? I know joining the marines or something is supposed to “put hair on a man’s chest,” but come on, this is Peace Corps. Is there something in the diet here that causes the sudden increase? Is there a chest hair fairy that flies around at night sprinkling stray black hairs on sleeping men, or perhaps, plucking them from their head and attaching them to their chest? I hope not. I’ve got enough problems with bats and mosquitoes flying into my room. The last thing I need are chest hair fairies.

I have by no means become apelike, but I was content with my previous coverage. I spent no listless nights worrying about the state of my chest hair. Actually, even in those trying days of puberty I never spent any time thinking about my chest hair. And now suddenly, there it is. At this rate, I have no idea where this hair growth might lead. I could become one of those sweaty guys, shirt unbuttoned to my navel, a glossy chest of matted hair and gold chains, leering disgustingly at passing women.

“Sure I made a difference in their lives, but seriously, look what a did for me? C’mon, look at all the chest hair! Hey, baby. Where you going? What’s your sign? Come give daddy a kiss.”

I really don’t want to become that guy. But hell, I’ve got plenty of razors, so if it starts to affect my personality dramatically I can always shave off the offending hair. Of course, that could alter me as well, turning me into some creepy guy at the gym, standing over the bench press, patting my biceps and leering about the room. Plus I’d probably have to start tanning and get a nipple ring and... well it just doesn’t bode well. I hope the unexplained chest hair growth stops soon. I really don’t want this kind of personal development. This experience is supposed to create POSITVE change in a person.

Breasts

2007-08-23T06:44:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, in some Peace Corps file, is a hastily written list of goals and aspirations I was required to fill out during training. I don’t remember exactly what I put in there, but I’m sure it was overly idealistic and filled with wild ideas that would seem positively laughable now. They’ll give it back to me when I leave and I can compare mine with other volunteers and we can all share a good laugh at our combined naiveté.

Some of those goals were no doubt very simple and practical. I recall writing that I wanted to learn to make wine, milk a cow and kill and pluck a chicken. Wine making will occur in the fall, but the cows are off limits apparently. My neighbors think I’m joking when I ask to help with the milking. They think I’m mocking them and tell me the cow is ill tempered and will kick me. I sincerely want to know how to milk a cow.

The matter of the chicken was becoming a near obsession for me. Originally, it was simple curiosity, something I thought seemed a practical thing to know. However, a year of eating Georgian chickens had left me with one burning question: What happens to the chicken breasts? Every time a pot of chopped chicken pieces appear before me it turns into some sort of incomplete anatomy lesson. It’s as if the chicken’s body had been censored by Focus on the Family or some other lobbying group concerned that the sight of breasts could adversely affect impressionable young people. The repeated absence has turned me into some sort of amateur poultry coroner. I investigate the carcass and fail to find the chicken breasts. The plot thickens.

During training, my site mates and I engaged in endless speculation as to what had become of the breasts. We’d see the chickens roaming the yard, looking plump and busty, but once they were on the plate the breasts were missing.

Does the cook eat them? Do Georgian chickens simply not grow breasts? Or is there some sort of cultural aversion to them, the way we volunteers are towards the chicken feet, neck, organs and heads we are served (actually fried chicken feet are kind of tasty). Georgians enjoy these little bits and we don’t. Maybe the inverse is true for breasts.

I’ve told my host mother repeatedly that I’d like to be on hand for one of the chicken executions. To her, this is like asking to be on hand for when she peels an onion or opens a jar of mayonnaise. “Ryan, come quick, for I am to use the magical can opener! Get your camera!” Or maybe she just thinks I’m morbid. The months have passed, and I’ve eaten my share of chicken, but had never been included in the killing.

A few weeks ago, around high noon, I opened the back door and caught my host father, axe in his hand with a chicken pinned to a rotting log. Aha!

It’s pretty much how you figure it. Axe comes down, head comes off, body attempts to run the 100-meter dash but is thwarted by being stuffed under an overturned laundry basket. The flopping goes on for thirty seconds, while my host father keeps his foot on the basket and absentmindedly scratches his stomach and admires the view. I suppose this method is employed to keep it from running off to warn the others.

All the while it flops, the chicken’s severed head stares blankly back at the world that, only a few seconds earlier, was the happy site of its incessant clucking and endless search for bugs and worms. I thought maybe it would blink or give me a disdainful look, but nothing.

I passed on to my host parents the story my mother told me, in which, as a child, she and her cousins would draw a big circle in the yard, chop the head off and see if the headless chicken could run out of the circle. If it did, it won. My host parents nodded sheepishly, knowing this game first hand. “No need to act ashamed,” I thought. “It seems a fine game to me.”

Once the uncontrolled jerking had ended, my host mother heated up a pot of water to aid with the plucking. To test for the proper temperature she would dip the severed head in, pull it out and check if the feathers could be pulled out with ease. Apparently, the water has to be at less than a boil. Once the proper temperature was reached, the bird was dipped in and the feathers were then pulled off with ease. It was then briefly held over the open flame of the gas stove to burn off what little bits of feather remained and then butchered. And with this, the matter of ‘where the hell are the chicken breasts?’ was settled for me once and for all.

A Georgian chicken is flat as a board.

Perhaps growing up eating hormone laden chickens and watching the actresses of Baywatch jog in slow motion down the beach had given me unrealistic expectations of breast size. Perhaps it is unreasonable to expect a 2-1 breast to body ratio. These chickens aren’t posing for centerfolds after all, they’re simply living out their days, roaming the yard, eating bugs and bits of corn, and cockle-doodle-doing at all hours of the night. Perhaps this lifestyle and diet limit the size of their breasts. Or perhaps their free-range status instead of being crammed into tiny cages that does it. Or maybe it’s a local poultry conspiracy, as they might opposed to developing meatier portions often served in a garlicky broth and mopped up with bread. I’m not really sure.

Regardless, like tissue paper in a bra, their feathers exaggerate their size. Chickens in Georgia are simply A-cups. When chicken is served it’s best to rush for a thigh and avoid the pointless search for absent breast meat.

And thus, the mystery of the missing chicken breasts was solved.

REJECTION & unrelated pics

2007-08-23T06:15:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I received a rejection letter from the good people at Andrews McMeel Publishing. I have included it below:

Dear Mr. Nickum
Thank you for submitting the “This Day in Bald History” calendar proposal to Andrews McMeel Publishing. I am sorry to say that there is not enough support among our staff for us to pursue it. We do wish you success in placing the work with another publisher, though, and appreciate the opportunity to review your material.

Apparently, the good publisher felt that a page-a-day calendar (the kind you tear out each day) detailing the many accomplishments and failures of bald people throughout history just wasn’t something they were interested in, even if written in an irreverent way. You might agree with the publisher’s judgment, thinking, perhaps rightly, that the concept is ridiculous and absurd. You’d be in good company. Andrew McMeel Publishing is not the first publisher to reject this out of hand.

I recall reading the first rejection of my calendar over a year ago. I was sitting in my rented “apartment” comparing the crushing rejection letter with the shiny announcement from Peace Corps announcing I’d been selected to serve in the Republic of Georgia. In one, there was a sense of hope and adventure. In the other, a sense of failure and the possibility I’d wasted a good many months on something frivolous and dumb. It was in that moment I decided to walk through the door that opened and away from the one that had slammed in my face.

The decision wasn’t difficult. I simply looked around my apartment, an unfinished room I’d rented from my friend Pojken. It was above his woodshop and beside his sagging and decrepit farmhouse. I’d enthusiastically agreed to live in the house at a very discounted rent in exchange for helping with its remodel. Living in a dilapidated house turned construction zone prepared me immensely for living in a redeveloping country.

I’d lifted my eyes from the two letters, imagined Georgia, and then scanned the room, noticing the exposed insulation, the unfinished drywall project, the mouse droppings, the rattling windows, the woodstove in the corner that was my sole source of heat, and the Gatorade bottle by the door that often served as my urinal while the bathroom was under repairs. The bathroom was often under repairs and the decision turned out to be not so difficult after all.

There are certain things that didn’t go on my resume or letter of purpose that I’d sent to Peace Corps during the application process that probably were more important than prior education and work experience. I have faced winters without heat. I am accustomed to days without electricity. I have not only used an outhouse, but even dug the hole for them, which is far worse. These were good preparations for life in a village in Georgia.

Early in training here, we were asked to tell the other volunteers why we were glad to be in Georgia. I’d been quiet for most of these training sessions, but immediately felt the urge to speak up. I recounted to the others a dream I’d had the previous night. In it, I was back in America at the temp job I held for a few months before departing for Georgia. I was working at a mortgage company in Bellevue, a bland sea of office parks and chain restaurants near Seattle, that should be razed to the ground. For eight hours a day, I labored in the basement listening to an overly talkative girl with a limited understanding of the alphabet. For a little more than minimum wage I’d endured her anti-immigrant rants and calmly explained that P, in fact, came after O and not the other way around. In the dream I was back there again. I was panicked, the walls felt to be closing in and this girl was rambling on and on about how she hoped the INS would take “all the Mexicans back to where they belong.” I awoke from the dream in a sweat. Outside, a herd of water buffalo noisily passed by my window. The room was unbearably hot, the baby in the next room was crying, something unpleasant could be smelled cooking on the stove, and I was relieved beyond anything that I was in Georgia and not back in the states. I was away from that dreadful calendar, away from that miserable job, suddenly living in a strange land full of surprises, and, thankfully, no longer peeing in a Gatorade bottle.

I try to remember things like that when life here gets a little frustrating. Of course now my previous life has come calling in the form of another rejection letter. And grad school deadlines are approaching and the question of “What do I do after Peace Corps?” is looming like a rogue wave. Another school year will soon begin, and with it un-measurable frustrations. Through it all I try to remember that basement filing room, and be thankful that if nothing else, Georgia is anything but boring.

This blog may seem to be filled with my bitching and moaning, but keep in mind that I can leave at any time. Peace Corps has a contract with a very reputable travel agent who will book you a flight at a moments notice and fly you directly back to your place of permanent residence. They are forbidden to try to talk you out of it. And I’m still here, still trudging down the dusty road every day and preparing for another school year. And even if bald history isn’t a bestseller, perhaps something marketable can be written about life in Georgia. Or, it it’s not marketable, perhaps at least I can gain some variety in my rejection letters.

THE LAZY DAYS OF SUMMER

2007-08-02T02:14:00.000-07:00

Here in Dimi the oppressive summer heat has arrived—humidity, sweat, glaring sun, sweat, offensive sweat, even more sweat, and ... well, you can’t believe how much sweat. It’s disgusting. As a native of the mild climate of the northwest I’m ill-prepared for this type of heat. All winter I felt pretty smug about my ability to withstand the cold in my unheated room with cold wind blowing in through gaps in my windows. I am now eating my words from when I called everyone else a sissy for their heaters and long johns and complaints about the cold.

Even after a few weeks in the humidity of Washington DC in July, I was not prepared for another summer of sweltering heat in Georgia. And unlike the semi-hot places I’ve lived previously, here there is no AC, no rotating fan, no nothing.

I open my window at night in hopes of a slight breeze and instead all I get is bats. I rest in my bed, under the semi-protection of my mosquito net and watch these creatures do frantic laps around my room. I assume they’re supposedly looking for the exit, but mostly they seem content to nest in my curtains and circle about above my bed. The least they could do is eat the mosquitoes and moths that invade my bedroom, but they do nothing of the sort. So I sweat it out in my room and thank God I was given some sort of rabies vaccine.

Unlike back home, there is no washing machine to take care of my stinky T-shirts and shorts. Unlike certain spoiled American volunteers whose host mothers diligently hand wash their clothes (and iron their underwear—Seth), my own host mom is much too progressive and modern. I didn’t even have to put up a fight about who would do the laundry. When I first mentioned that I needed to wash my clothes, my host mom showed me where the sink and buckets were and left me to it. It should be noted that I have not been allowed to wash any dishes.

I’m completely in favor of liberating the women here from their unfair share of domestic chores, but this noble attitude unfortunately entails a lot of work on my end. At a minimum it would be nice if my host mother hadn’t laughed at me for the blisters I got the first couple times I washed my clothes by hand. But I am a noble guy, an ardent feminist by this country’s standards.

Recently, my girlfriend Paige visited. She is beloved by my host family. Her only fault, according to them, is that she is too skinny and that she refuses to eat enough.

Her latest visit won major points as she made chocolate chip cookies. She also won over my host sister’s baby, as little Mariami followed her around like a lost puppy. My host mother was very impressed with Paige’s domestic skills and motherly instinct, pulling me aside to tell me what a “good girl” she was and how she would be more than happy to tell Paige’s parents what a “good boy” I was. So Paige has her backers. But is she really such a wonderful potential wife?

Allow me to display exhibit A.

It was a ridiculously hot summer day and I was sweating profusely. Paige alleged that I was not smelling very fresh, which is really a very rude thing to tell someone regardless of how very, very true it might have been. Actually, I believe her comments were something along the lines of, “Ryan, you stink. You should take a shower and wash your clothes.”

I admit, my clothes were not smelling of roses. And yes, I attempted to remedy this by washing them with Barf brand detergent. And despite it’s poor name, Barf is a fine detergent and I stand by it and would recommend it to friends.

However, despite my host mother’s kind words, Paige is NOT a good woman by Georgian standards. Even after I made her wonderful grilled cheese sandwiches she still absolutely refused to wash my clothes for me.
Oh, sure, all of you back in America are shocked by that comment, but it is the norm here in Georgia. Women do laundry and cook and clean. What do the men do? Well... I can’t pass that one by the censors so just never mind. Use your imagination.

This is not the first time that Paige has refused to do her female duty of washing my clothes. Oh, sure, she does wash her own clothes by hand, but her refusal to wash mine makes me look bad. A previous visit involved her reading a book in the sun while I washed my clothes, all the while the neighborhood men, uhm... consumed responsible amounts of alcohol in my yard and looked on in disgust. I appeared very shameful in their eyes. I appeared to be a bit of a pansy. And worse yet, Paige appeared not to care. Oh, sure. I open car doors for her, kill spiders, give her my coat on cold walks, offer up my umbrella, glare at leering men on busses and all the rest, but does she reciprocate by scrubbing my socks and shirts? No. She does not.

So here I am, washing my clothes and hanging them on clothesline, while my dear Paige just sits around chatting with my host mother, drinking coffee and discussing the weather. By Georgian standards this is wrong, and aren’t we supposed to be culturally assimilating?

But before you all send cards of condolence please know that here in the world of Georgia there is a catch to this gross unfairness. There is a strange silver lining to these “traditional gender roles.”

On a recent night, I found myself at a large Georgian supra with Paige and a handful of other American girls. And, unfortunately, I also found that I was the sole American male. This supra was very traditional and that means the women sit and talk and the men drink, uhm... considerable but responsible portions. I’ve come to fear such situations. And as the sole American male amidst a number of Georgian men there was a lot of added pressure on me to drink.

I’m a fairly competent drinker (for an American), but the stakes are much higher over here. One has to drink a lot, but also maintain sobriety, something that is completely unfair given the amounts involved. One tries their best.

Over the course of 4-5 hours the wine poured far too freely for my liking. I was stuck at the end of the table with the men and we drank glass after glass of wine. And when the glasses proved to small for the gravity of the toast, my fellow drinkers broke out larger cups, various larger vessels and even bowls, just to up the ante. For the sake of my mom and the Peace Corps officials reading this blog I won’t say how much we drank, but it’s fair to say that it was enough to bring down a family of camels.

Sitting two seats away from Paige I bravely kept up with the Georgians and represented my dear America most admirably. By the end of the supra the Georgians were impressed. I was declared a “good boy” and a fine drinker and a credit to my family and country. I was encouraged to leave my village and move to theirs’. We were now brothers and I had proved my worth.

When it was finally over Paige expressed how impressed she was with how I was able to keep up with the Georgians. Did you catch that? She was impressed with my drinking.

And there you have the strange contradiction of life for Americans living in Georgia. If this was back in the states and someone had gone out and drank like this, any respectable girlfriend (Paige especially) would have ripped her boyfriend apart for such irresponsible behavior. But since this is Georgia, and the rules are different, Paige gave me a pat on the back for holding my own. When does anyone in the states ever hear their girlfriend say “Way to go! I can’t believe you were able to drink so much.” This is a rare place and time. The rules are very different.

When I return to America, I look forward to not washing my boxers in the sink with my bare hands. But even more so, I look forward to not drinking a good portion of my body weight in wine out of social obligation. Oh, Georgia. You are a strange and magnificent land. Possibly bad for the health, but quite a place all the same. Wait, can I say that? Maybe I should mention the many curative powers of their mineral waters. They say the mineral waters are very good for the liver and kidneys.

Babies and Lost

2007-08-02T01:23:00.000-07:00

MARIAMI ON GRANDMA'S LAP

In Georgian villages babysitters are rare, but there's plenty of grandparents. This is good for my house, since my host sister lives in a different village and we have only South American soap operas and the clumsiness of the puppy to entertain us. The near constant presence of grandkids is very welcome indeed. Even though my host mother is only nine years older than I am, she already has two grandkids. The most recent is Romani, a chubby little baby boy who cares for little more than milk.

ROMANI

His big sister Mariami is 1 ½ years old and a lot of fun. Her hobbies include following the puppy about, playing with a watermelon in a bucket of water, and squealing.

I have an ongoing joke with my host father that I know when he’s been drinking heavily or has a grandchild around because it’s the only time he talks and smiles. The new baby means a lot of grandkid time and since my host father hasn’t cut back on his role as toast master for most the neighborhood’s supras, he’s been all smiles as of late.

OMARI PULLING BOTTLES OF WINE UP AFTER COOLING IN THE WELL

Babies are universally loved, but here in Georgia they’re the absolute center of the world. If one of the grandkids are around the whole neighborhood seems to drop by on a daily basis. It’s not uncommon for seven people to oversee the baby’s bath.

I really enjoy the little guys, but sadly I haven’t paid as much attention to them since I’ve been a bit distracted as of late. The cause of this the American TV series “Lost.”

While I was in the states, my brother gave me the first two seasons on DVD. For those of you who haven’t seen this series my advice is to avoid it like it was crack, because that’s what it is. Crack.

I do not get caught up in television in America. Aside from SportsCenter and the Daily Show and Seahawks games I don’t watch a lot of television. I don’t say this like I’m too highbrow for TV, I just don’t like feeling obligated to be home at a certain hour to watch my favorite program. And Lost is exactly my greatest fear. This show is rock cocaine. Stay away from it. It is addictive. While I should have been writing a new 6th grade English textbook the past week, I’ve instead been watching episode after episode of this program. Essentially I watched 40 hours of TV in four days. I ate my meals and wasted the best hours of the day and night watching the series on my laptop, trying to figure out just what was going to happen next.

I have never been so ashamed of myself. When I sleep, my dreams are filled with this remote island and it’s weird cast. I’m suddenly running through the jungle, trying to get away from the “others,” helping Mr. Echo and Jack in their various escapades, consoling Michael over the loss of his son, cursing that stupid Shannon and hanging out with Hurley and Charlie.

And now that I’ve watched all the episodes of season 1 and 2, I’m desperately trying to get season 3. WHAT HAPPENS NEXT! I think I found another volunteer who downloaded season 3 somehow and I’ve made arrangements to get it. I have to get it. Absolutely have to.

Now I understand why the most productive conversation topic with my more advanced students was this show, which has been showing on Georgian TV. It’s all they could talk about. Their notebooks were covered with stickers from actors of this show. They’d debate long and hard about which guy they thought was better looking, Jack or Sawyer. And I think I’ve found the way to get them to come to class: I show the program in English and get them to discuss it in English. Who said Hollywood was the bane of the planet. It may be the way to get through to these kids, and I’ll get to watch my precious Lost also. Finally, a win-win.

MY HOST SISTER ZANDA AND HER DAUGHTER MARIAMI

Land of Milk & Honey

2007-07-20T04:04:00.000-07:00

Late June saw the triumphant return of Ryan Nickum to the land of his birth. After a year of heroically toiling in the often thankless role of Peace Corps Volunteer, he’d earned the right to come back and eat some tacos. Good for me.

I left Georgia at 4am on an Austrian Air flight abound for Vienna and then Washington DC. While waiting for boarding I chatted with the good people of the American band Earth Wind and Fire, who had just played a show in Tbilisi. We talked about the upcoming NBA draft briefly and I got to listen to their impressions of Georgia.

“Man, this mother f*$%&#r was crowding me in line, pushing up on me like he wants me and s#$t. I was like hell no! Four in the morning ain’t too early whip a man’s ass!”

I was slightly conflicted. On the one hand I know that Georgians don’t believe in lines in the same way we do America. It’s sort of a scrum and they don’t have the issues with proximity and body space that we Americans do. It’s perfectly acceptable to place your groin in someone’s shoulder on a tightly packed mini-bus. It’s also totally normal to be pressed tightly against another person so a not to lose your place in the line (crowd). However, I could also, as an American, relate to Earth Wind and Fire’s uncompromising stance. They were saying the same things I wanted to, but was to “culturally sensitive” to say. It was all somehow charming. I missed Americans.

They were equally intolerant of people trying to push ahead of them as we all jostled for our bags. The poor Austrian passengers trying to push past them to reach bags in compartments at the front of the plane were not treated with courtesy. I really liked them. I fully intend to buy their album.

The 4-hour layover in Vienna was dull. Austria, in my mind, is a bland and boring place. The efficiency and cleanliness seem sterile and inhuman after a year in Georgia. And on the return flight, after two weeks in America, it felt the same. It’s entirely too well kept, almost unreal, like a Disneyland theme park. But one can’t argue with their salami and camembert grilled sandwiches or their espresso or precious WiFi.

Nine hours after boarding my flight in Vienna I was on the ground in Washington DC. It was a culture shock, but not in a bad way. I was blown away by all the gleaming cars, the air conditioning was freezing, the business parks were ugly as hell (but at least people are working), and the brainless prattling of teenage girls was mind-numbing, but I was home. so to say. Via bus and subway I was soon at my brother’s office, his name newly printed name next to his door. It was damn good to see him. I’d really missed my brother. And after a hug and introductions to co-workers we were soon eating really lousy Spanish tapas and drinking really good sangria, and chatting about his new job, my past year and good ol’ brother stuff.

We made up for this disappointment with a great Mexican dinner and margaritas thanks to some much appreciated funding from my cousin Vic. Now I feel even worse about peeing in his tent as a toddler.

I wasn’t expecting to get to see my folks, but Stuart informed me that my Mom had a change of heart (or disregard for $ and work obligations) and had decided to come out. So the next day she arrived, which was great. I had so much to tell her when she arrived that I was somehow turned into a bumbling moron. “How’s Dad? How’s work? Etc.”

We spent our days shopping for Stuart’s apartment and touring art museums. According to my mom, Stuart’s apartment was low on beer mugs, that should be chilled in the freezer—what a considerate mother. Well we found them, and a waffle iron, which my mother was kind enough to make use of while I visited. Did I mention what a good mother she is? I guess so.

So we had a good time. We drank good coffee and wandered about town and even ate dinner at some upscale southern place and had good wine, tiny overpriced appetizers and foie gras stuffed quail and other food items I can’t pronounce and, according to spell check, can’t spell. That was a great dinner.

We watched the 4th of July fireworks from Stuart’s apartment rooftop surround by a bunch of Georgetown Law students with sub-par social skills. My mom stayed up with Stuart and I as we stayed up late talking and drinking a little bourbon—I think my Mom was hoping the alcohol would cause us to spill the beans on our love lives—Stuart was tight lipped as usual. I must have had more bourbon.

After four days of good talks and food she went back to Seattle, where my dad was waiting with a grocery bag with his clothes and razor. Apparently he decided to visit his boys as well. They swapped suitcase for grocery bag and my dad was on his way to DC. His arrival rounded out the family visit and absolutely made my trip. I was grateful for some time with my father, and just to hang out and talk about life and whatnot.

My friend Matt came down from New York City as well, riding his motorcycle 5 hours to crash on the floor at Stuart’s as well. The highlight was when the four of us (Stuart, Matt, my Dad and myself) went to the Capitol Grill for dinner. The four us had a guys’ night out and one hell of a steak dinner and pestered my Dad for old travel stories. I won’t spare the details of one of the best meals of my life. Do I talk about food way too much in this blog? Oh yeah. Definitely.

1. Raw Blue Point oysters on the half shell with a red wine vinegar mignonette sauce—best oysters I’ve ever had.
2. Skipped the salads and had Bookers bourbon and Baisel Haydens bourbon instead.
3. Top Sirloin (dry aged 28 days) with a Courvassier cream sauce
4. Corn with bacon
5. Mashed potatoes
6. Macaroni and cheese with lobster. Yeah. Lobster.
7. Who needs dessert after such a meal?

My Dad headed back soon after and I went about trying to buy some clothes. First on my list was buying a pair of jeans. Georgia has a number of fine qualities, but as a providor of blue jeans they rank very low. Men in Georgia apparently like what can only be described as women’s jeans. They have strange fits (tight), extra zippers all over the place that don’t lead to pockets, pockets in weird places, and neon stitching. Quite simply, Georgian blue jeans are morally wrong.

I tried going to the Tbilisi Levi’s store but it actually proved an even worse bet. As if the $180 price tag weren’t outrageous enough it was the least of the problems. There is absolutely no reason that men’s pants should allow a passerby to be able to make out the contours of one’s genitalia. I don’t mean you can see a man bulge, but the actual distinct lines of every separate part, where... well, basically you can see it all. Speedo’s hide more than these jeans do.

I was scared that maybe the Tbilisi Levi’s were part of some broad global phenomenon sweeping the fashion world. Luckily, American Levi’s still respect some semblance of privacy.

The last night in DC I’d already had so much good food that Stuart and I couldn’t justify going to Kinkead’s. This was the restaurant I’d dreamed of for months, the one I’d listed the menu of in a previous entry, but I simply couldn’t justify the price. When I come back I’ll visit you sweet Kincaid’s. We’ll meet again. I haven’t forgotten you.

The day I left I met Stuart for lunch and after I’d rushed the goodbye because I was dreading it, I headed off to the airport feeling like absolute hell. The prospect of not being around my family for another year felt absolutely hellish. Like a dog with his tail between his leg I got on that plane. After three hours on the runway waiting for the weather to lift we finally took off and I watched America disappear out the window and felt like ass.

Twenty-four hours later I was back in Georgia. But miracles of miracles, they didn’t lose my bags or steal anything from them. And not long after getting back I got to see my girlfriend Paige, which eased my homesickness considerably. She’s a really cool girl.

After a couple days in the capital I headed home to Dimi. I still didn’t really feel like I was back. But once I smelled an overused bus stop outhouse and walked up that muddy road and saw my mangy dogs I knew I was back. And the weird thing was I didn’t feel bad. And my host family was happy to see me and I was happy to see them. And as I sat down to a meal of normal Georgian fare, I realized I’d actually missed the place. The next day at the local market the locals were full of questions about where I’d been and how my family was. The students I passed on the street waved excitedly as I passed by and it felt oddly good to be back, which is good, because it’s another whole year to come.

The Other Washington

2007-06-23T05:35:00.000-07:00

Excitement doesn't really describe how I feel about my upcoming return to the land of America. It's bordering on manic excitement. I won't be returning to Seattle, but will instead be in Washington DC visiting my brother, possibly harassing congress to increase our readjustment allowance (we deserve more $ when we get out of PC), exercising, watching SportsCenter, and hopefully stuffing my face with delicious American food at the fine restaurant Kinkead's. Some moronic volunteer actually asked me if I'd be going to the Georgian restaurant in Washington DC. It was all I could do not to punch them in the face.

Georgian food is good. Nearly all 15 dishes Georgians prepare are tasty. I like Georgian food and if one has to eat the food of one country day after day, well you could do a lot worse then Georgia. And Georgians will tell you all the time that they have the best food (as well as the best kings/women/wine/song/dance...). They believe this firmly. They say it all the time. They are convinced of it, especially those who have only had Georgian food and that's practically all of them. Trying to drag a Georgian to a Chinese restaurant is like leading a crazed steer to slaughter.

And with all due respect to Georgian cuisine I must say given the varieties of food available in America, we win the contest hands down. To prove this I will put a comparison between a typical Georgian meal and the one I've already planned to eat at Kinkead's Restaurant in Washington DC, which is possibly the greatest place on earth.

Please take the multiple choice quiz:

Appetizer
A. White bread.
B. Yucatan tuna soup with tomatillos, chilies, lime, sour cream, and tortilla strips.

Salad
A. Whole raw radishes and green onions double-dipped in a bowl of salt.
B. Roasted Gorgonzola stuffed Bosch pear with endive, radicchio salad, spiced walnuts, and port vinaigrette.

Fish
A. Some kind of Mackerelish fish left in the sun for a couple days and then frozen for a month and later fried in vegetable oil.
B. Pepper-seared tuna with flageolets, grilled portabello mushrooms, and a pinot noir sauce.

Meat:
A. Chunks of pig foot and face served in frozen gelatin.
B. Grilled Jamison Farms lamb steak with a salad of artichokes, arugula, nicoise olives, parisienne potatoes, served with rosemary garlic confit and merlot sauce.

If you answered B to all of these then you are not Georgian. But wait, maybe I'm being unfair. I mean Kinkead's is a culinary wonderland, a place where everything is infused with butter instead of just covered in grease. And it's not fair to compare it to any country's cuisine, especially when you factor in price, so let me try this again.

LUNCH:
A. Macaroni simmered in sugar water then left to chill on the stove top for days.
B. A roommates half eaten spicy Italian sub from Subway restaurant that's been sitting in the crisper drawer for two days.

FRESHNESS
A. Ground pork and bread mashed into a patty and fried in oil. Leave on a plate at room temperature for six days.
B. A single ahi sushi roll eaten after sitting in a to-go box in the fridge for six days.

POTATO
A. Boiled potato.
B. Baked potato with butter, chives, sour cream and bacon bits.

America, you are the winner. And I've missed you America. It's been so long. I'm sorry I said all those bad things about you. You know I didn't mean it baby. You know I love you. I just needed some space, you know, to work through some things. I think I'm ready to make it work. Maybe I could drop by for a donut and a cup of fresh brewed coffee. Maybe we could take it from there?

Oh, sorry. Kind of got carried away there. Anyway, I fly out on June 28th and return to The Georgia on July 12th. However, as I've learned from all the most recent Peace Corps volunteers who have returned for the states for brief visits, this most certainly won't be my true itinerary. Of the last three people who visited the states all had their trips completely jacked. Baggage lost on both ends, whole flights canceled, 12 hour layovers spent sleeping on floors at JFK, O'Hare, Heathrow, etc, whole days lost in airport terminals waiting for the next flight, airline officials claiming they couldn't fly to Georgia because they didn't have a return ticket.

Everybody in the past 2 months has been absolutely screwed by an array of airlines, baggage handlers and weather patterns. I'm hoping to be spared this nightmare. But if the Airline Gods insist on stranding me at the some dank airport between Georgia and DC, just let them have a Burger King or a Starbucks. They can have my backpack full of weathered and unstylish clothes. Just give me some fresh brewed coffee and a stale baguette. I'll be cool with that.

See you soon America.

School's Out 4 Summer

2007-06-19T06:33:00.000-07:00

School is finally out for summer, bringing an end to a year of trial and error, frustration and amusement, steps forward and back, little victories and many defeats.

My final days were spent playing school photographer, showing photos of the 10th grade concert on my computer, and burning the pictures onto CDs for the students. This could be my legacy here. "Who was Ryan? Oh, he was that American guy with the camera."

My fellow volunteers and I just celebrated our 1 year anniversary here. We booked the Thai restaurant in Tbilisi, brought jugs of bad wine and had a mock "Peace Corps Prom." Aside from dressing up and voting for prom king and queen I have no idea why it was called prom. Congrats to Jen and Nicholas on their victory as Prom King and Queen. I did not receive a single vote, truly an oversight on the part of the other volunteers.

After a year together as a group we've established some close friendships and become really tight. But after one year of hanging out with and gossiping about the same 40+ volunteers we were more than ready for the next wave of volunteers, who arrived a few days ago. Now we’ve got see some new faces and something new to talk about.

Georgia changes a person. After a year here we're a little bit jaded, a little less polite, louder, and our general appearance has gone completely to hell. Hand washing our worn clothes, infrequent bathing, and language mix ups with the local hairdressers and barbers have cheapened our looks a bit. We are not so shiny and new anymore. So when the new group showed up at the Ambassador's house to meet us they seemed to be positively glowing. With their pressed shirts, recent showers, designer eye ware, and wide-eyed excitement they might well have been UFOs dropping down from the heavens. They looked nothing like us. They looked like we did a year ago. What the hell happened to us?

"They're so clean!" muttered more than one volunteer. After an hour of chatting with them we discovered they're also more experienced and probably a little better educated as well. They arrived with the same fears we had: crime, illness, difficulty of language, etc. We tried to be reassuring, but it was hard.

New Guy: "Is crime a big problem here?
Me: "No. I think that's exaggerated"
New Guy: "Have you ever been the victim of any crime?"
Me: "Well, I was pick-pocketed the other day. And another time I nearly got into a fight with a guy on the bus after he tried to forcibly steal my cell-phone, but no, crime’s not really much of an issue."

New Guy: "How about illness?"
Me: "No. That's exaggerated also. Just try not to drink the water."
New Guy: "Have you ever been sick?"
Me: "Yeah. I just had an allergic reaction that caused my face to swell up and I could barely walk for a few days... and then I had a stomach parasite that was kind of, err... bad."
Heidi: "Bad? You crapped the bed didn't you?"
Me: "Shut up Heidi. It was only a little bit. It's not like I completely crapped myself. And then there was that fever that left me hallucinating and then I had..."
New Guy: "Uhh, but you said illness isn't that common?"
Me: "Uhm, well, just don't worry about it."

I don’t think the New Guy needed to hear that I’d sort of crapped the bed a long time ago. I was certainly kind enough not to mention to the New Guy that Heidi has lice—(that’s Heidi Laki, of Houston Texas, graduate of Pepperdine University—I hope this comes up on a Google search). And I don't mean she had lice, no, wait actually she had lice a few months back, but now she has it again. Lice! Like the bugs in your hair and stuff. I mean yeah, once when I was reeling with severe diarrhea from an unidentified parasite I did inadvertently sort-of-just-a-little-bit-kind-of-crap-the-bed. I can't emphasize enough how little it was. And yes, to hide it from my host family I had to sneak downstairs and wash my sheet in the bathtub while I took a bucket bath, but it was only a little bit. It's not like I completely crapped my pants like some other volunteers here did when their stomach parasites reared their ugly heads. And I certainly never had lice. I mean come on. Who gets lice?

Anyway, we were hoping to be considerate, reassuring, and welcoming to the new volunteers. We were going to not talk about crapping ourselves or anything else of the sort. In fact we were going to skip over the topic of bowel movements altogether, which is surprisingly hard for Peace Corps volunteers because we talk about it a lot. I know that’s sick, but it’s true, and not just for PC volunteers in Georgia but pretty much for PC volunteers everywhere.

We weren’t going to scare the new guys. We were hoping they wouldn't hate us like we hated the group before us when we first arrived, until we grew a little bit jaded like them, and discovered they weren’t condescending and jaded jerks. They were just a little more experienced, in tune with the realities of working and living in Georgia.

We tried to emphasize the upsides, the warmth of the people, the beauty of the country, but they just kept asking questions that led to bad answers. And they always asked the wrong people. If the question was about the frequency of men groping girls on the bus, it seemed they always asked the few who had been victims. When they asked questions about the probability of illness they invariably asked the ones who have spent more time in the doctor's office than in their schools.

Some of the volunteers from my group laughed about the questions the new volunteers asked and their somewhat over-active enthusiasm. But they got this thrown back in their face by one of the Peace Corps officials. "You guys were exactly the same when you first came. You guys asked all those same questions. You guys were completely the same." And it’s true. We were.

So hopefully we didn't scare them. Hopefully our answers to their questions were helpful and insightful. And if we might have sort of left out giving them advice on how to not get your hair butchered by the local hairdresser and barbers, well it's only because they're all so damn clean and well-groomed and we'd like to see them as peers and equals, something we simply can't do with them all looking so much better than us.

Healing

2007-06-07T03:19:00.000-07:00

As the effects of my bizarre allergic reaction finally declines, I’m starting to feel like a human being again. Prior to this I felt like an 85-year-old man: cranky, achy, tired and in general pain.

I consider myself a generally healthy person, but Georgia has done it’s best to prove otherwise. Between stomach parasites that have left me cowering in outhouse, fevers that have left me hallucinating and thinking the dogs barking outside were actually people in the next room getting it on, and now this allergic reaction that left me looking like a circus freak, I’ve had my share of illness over here. And frankly, I’m sick of it.

I wish there’d been a camera around to record the strange swelling of my face. I was absolutely ridiculous looking. Luckily, since the doctors don’t know what caused the food allergy, and since I’ll be eating all the same things once I get back to site, I’m sure I’ll develop it again. When I do, I’ll have the camera ready and can document the unicorn horn I’ll redevelop. In place of those for now I’ve included a before and after that give you a sense of roughly the change that took place, minus the horn I started growing.

BEFORE & AFTER

Since arriving in Tbilisi for medical treatment I’ve kept a low profile, hobbling between the hostel and the Peace Corps office, going to numerous doctor’s appointments and catching up on months of ESPN.com articles. I’ve been remarkably uninformed on the latest NFL trades and the draft.

Back at my school, nothing is happening. Students and teachers are simply sitting around waiting for vacation to come. So at least I’m not missing anything. However, my host sister just had a baby and I’m anxious to get back to see the little guy.

Drinking and Dancing with My Students

2007-05-31T08:09:00.001-07:00

If you get the chance, the best way to drink wine is to dip a dirty glass that's been used by dozens of people into a plastic barrel and then have a drunk man in a paper crown serve it. It's delicious. And if you're an American well then it's your lucky day because you get to drink two cups with the King of the Barrel himself.

While the priests did accuse me of being an American spy for all the photos I was taking, they are cool guys, sometimes offering me rides, giving me religious icons for decoration and once even paying my bus fare.

Two months before this picture was taken a man in my village offered to help his son bridenap this girl. Luckily the boy refused.

People refuse to believe I can't dance. They keep telling me to get out there, but when I finally do dance I more than prove my point. Many of the students looked on in horror, but most were to drunk to care.

Practical Jokes

2007-05-31T07:48:00.000-07:00

I've written often about the glory of care packages. Today, when I learned I'd received one, I dropped what I was doing and rushed to the mail room. An oddly shaped package from Pojken, Chaitee and Bonny awaited. I excitedly began to open it when I recalled a phone call I had with my Mom a few weeks before. She's spoken with Bonny who had warned that they'd sent me a package that was low on goodies and heavy on humor.

Nervously, I opened it. Inside were a number of delicious food products, but most of the space was filled with giant bamboo wind chimes.

I hate wind chimes. I don't mean I dislike them or that they merely annoy me. I mean I HATE THEM. I hate them with every ounce of my being. And there they were. Great big wind chimes. As if Georgia doesn't have enough problems, now this. So I have to find a place to bury them. Maybe i can burn them in winter to keep warm?

Anyway, it was a good prank. I won't dwell on how they could have filled the space filled with wind chimes with delicious tastes of home. I will have a little chuckle, move on, and plot my revenge.

Theft and Illness in Good Ol' Georgia

2007-05-31T02:29:00.000-07:00

Monday morning began normally enough. I reluctantly got out of bed and took a shower. But while shaving in the mirror I noticed a strange bump in the middle of my forehead. I’d noticed my sides ached earlier and pointed it out to my host mother. She said the pain in my side was probably from having the window open the night before. “Breezes cause backaches.”

“What about the lump on my head,” I asked. “Put some vodka on it,” she replied. This is supposedly good for bug bites. The bump didn’t itch, but it was far larger than a mosquito bite. “Is it a spider bite perhaps?” My host mother insists there are no biting spiders in Georgia. Pushing the memories of the numerous varieties I’ve seen in my room and in the kitchen out of my mind, I just nodded knowingly.

Little things like this happen all the time so I didn’t think much of it. But as the day progressed my sides began to ache worse and worse and I’d noticed another lump on my neck. Soon my nose began to swell. So I called the Peace Corps doctor and she told me to come in right away.

At the same time my girlfriend Paige was heading to Tbilisi so we met in Kutaisi to catch the bus to the capital. After being harassed by gypsy women for 10 minutes I got on the bus with Paige. As I walked up the stairs a strange man was standing in my way. He looked nervous and confused and I tried to squeeze past him. As I did he jerked me around by my backpack. I turned to face him, thinking it was some drunk jerk, but found myself facing a downcast man shaking slightly and looking at the floor. He awkwardly pushed past me and shuffled down the aisle and off the bus.

I felt like a jerk. The guy appeared to be both mentally and physically disabled and I’d turned on him like some kind of antagonistic jerk. I felt guilty, sat down next to Paige and told her what happened.

Then, as the bus departed Kutaisi I suddenly realized my wallet was missing. I retraced the previous 20 minutes and realized what happened. I’d been pick-pocketed by the apparently disabled man. He’d tugged my backpack to turn me so he could access my pocket while also distracting me from my wallet by suddenly requiring me to brace myself against the seat. Sneaky bastard.

I’m highly anal about keeping track of my wallet. Every time I get bumped in a crowd I check my pocket to see if my wallet’s been swiped. I’ve already caught one man with his hand in my pocket trying to steal my cellphone. That nearly ended with us fighting in the back of the bus. The police refused to do anything.

The more I’ve thought about it, the more I think the guy whot took my wallet was actually playing disabled, like some kind of act. Like in Usual Suspects where Kevin Spacey’s character pretends to be crippled, but it turns out he’s the mastermind.

I imagine the man shuffled off the bus in a nervous, shaky sweat. As he passed the kiosks and ice-cream carts he probably resumed a normal pace. Looking back, he probably watched my bus pull out of site. I imagine a grin flashed across his face. He probably ducked behind a wall, opened the wallet and discovered his stupid American victim had recently gone to the cash machine and withdrawn $120. Sucker. After that he probably called up some of his faux-handicapped friends and had one hell of a party.

Meanwhile, I was kicking myself for my stupidity on the bus. My face was continuing to swell and soon I looked like I’d lost a 10 round boxing match. My nose was broad and swollen and the bump was getting bigger.

By 10pm I looked like I’d bean beaten by angry genies who allowed me one wish, and I’d chosen to become a unicorn. The lump on my head was perfectly squared on my forehead, and growing. The other volunteers and I sat around and made jokes about my future on the endangered species list, or what potential X-man I might be. I seriously looked like I’d had my ass-whipped and was growing a horn.

The next morning, my whole body ached, the swelling had increased, and worse, it had now reached my tongue. With my swollen tongue I couldn’t pronounce my words very easily and the doctor hurried to pick me up. The whole day was spent drawing blood, taking various other samples, going to labs and answering numerous questions, and get injections in my butt cheeks. Not the best day.

That was yesterday. Today I’m feeling much better. The doctors suspect it’s some kind of food allergy. They don’t think it’s because I was sitting outside while my host father was spraying the grapes with some bluish pesticide 20 feet away (I was engrossed in my book and didn’t notice).

The swelling has gone down considerably, but I’m being kept in the capital for monitoring. Basically this entails getting more shots in the ass and having my diet restricted. The lady who runs the hostel I’m at has been given careful instructions on how to feed me, although it seems to conflict with what the doctor’s told me.

Since I'm in Tbilisi I actually have access to non-Georgian food and to be deprived of it is torture. I’ve begged the doctors to let me have coffee or burgers or Thai food but they refuse. There are various potential foods that could have caused the allergy, although I’ve never had a food allergy before.

“Maybe tomorrow you can have tomatoes,” the doctors told me. “And maybe the next day you can try cucumbers.”

Of course I was served both at the hostel the day before. After much pressure, they’ve finally agreed to let me have McDonalds today. We had to negotiate the menu, but finally they conceded to let me have a Big Mac, fries and a Sprite. No ice cream or ketchup and I have to remove the pickles. So in 30 minutes I’ll take my puffy face and aches and pains and head to the golden arches. There had to be a silver lining in this somewhere.

Wedding Season

2007-05-12T07:38:00.000-07:00

One of the most important things to know about Georgian weddings is that there is not one, but rather two receptions following the wedding. This detail is particularly helpful when you’re trying to find the balance of how much to drink. “Phew,” you might think. “I made it through that supra without being in danger of a hangover, but I still drank enough so as not to look like a complete wimp.”

But then you will notice the car you thought was taking you home has suddenly veered into a driveway leading up to yet another banquet hall. “#%&$,” you might think. “Here we &$%@ing go again...”

And so the supra begins anew. Same food, worse wine, more unintelligible chatter (for me), huge speakers blaring Russian pop songs, old ladies tugging at the skin on your neck telling you what a good boy you are, etc. Round 2, ding!

Georgian weddings (and funerals) are judged by how many attend and how much wine is consumed. Very little attention is paid to the actual ceremony. I was the only one (bride and groom included) who was listening to the priest during the ceremony and I understood almost none of what he said.

This was not my first Georgian wedding, but it’s the first one I’ve been to where I recognized anyone. The last one I attended was for the son of the gym teacher at the school where a friend of mine is Peace Corps volunteer. Despite this distant connection, it was imperative that I came. A good demonstration of how much Georgians desire even total strangers to attend their weddings was at this one. During the reception/supra, the groom and the Best Man, both of whom served in the Georgian army in Iraq, came over to my table to toast me. Me. I’m the guy who did not serve in Iraq, but simply crashed the wedding.

Having missed the past few host family-related weddings I really had to go to this one, even though it meant missing a day of school. Missing a day of poorly attended lessons is no big deal at my school. We sometimes end school an hour or two early if any of the faculty are having a supra at their house. Partying comes first in Georgia. You have to grudgingly admire this.

While the wedding for her husband’s second cousin once removed’s wasn’t till Tuesday, my host mother began preparing food on Sunday. She baked a dozen cakes and a half-dozen trays of achma khatchapuri. The wedding was all the talk in the neighborhood. Of primary interest was whether the bride’s husband-to-be was taller than her. She is a tall girl by Georgian standards.

//THIS PICTURE IS OF AN APPLE, CHICKEN AND SUCKLING PIG SKEWERED ON A WOODEN STAKE. IT SYMBOLIZES THE IMPENDING WEDDING NIGHT// YUCK.

On the morning of the wedding I put on my suit and walked down the dusty road with my host family. A passing relic of Soviet engineering picked us up and drove us to the bride’s house in Kutaisi, the nearest city.

I mingled with a bunch of Georgian men as they smoked and played cards. Soon the groom arrived, the bride's father cried, we all shook hands and toasted the bride and groom. At this one, no plate was broken so those of us unmarried people could pick up pieces to put under our pillows so we could dream about our future spouses.

After this, everyone piled into cars to drive to the church. Georgian tradition requires everyone to form a caravan, drive at a high rate of speed, honk incessantly, and brake suddenly. This may sound dangerous, but there were only a handful of near-wrecks. the most frightening part was that my host sister was holding her 1-year-old baby in the passenger seat and when her husband had to slam on the breaks, she would just barely hold onto the baby, narrowly keeping it from hitting the windshield.

The ceremony was performed by an orthodox priest in a roofless 900-year-old church called Baghrati. It was very warm and most of the attendees hung out in the yard smoking, while a few dozen others stood in the church, idly chatting on their cell-phones. The bride and groom put on crowns, exchanged rings and circled the altar. Then they were pronounced husband and wife and out came the cell-phones. We all headed back to our cars, resumed our honking caravan and headed for the supra. The 1st supra it turned out.

At the supra, the main tamada (toast master) appoints little tamadas to head each of the tables. Our table didn’t get one, so we were spared a rambling presence calling on us to drink. I was seated next to my host brother-in-law Dato. He is not a typical Georgian man. He does not like to drink and actively avoids it with amazing dexterity. Sitting beside Dato in the sweltering heat of a crowded banquet room, we skipped over various toasts, drinking only when my host father was looking.

After three hours of feasting and dancing, we moved on to the next supra. I had consumed only five glasses of wine, something akin to a gross injustice by Georgian standards. Small children drink more than this at supras.

At supra number 2 I was not so lucky. The wine had loosened up the guests and they’d become interested in the American with the camera. Soon I was holding a horn full of wine and drinking it to the bottom. After that I was pulled over by various groups and urged to join them in toasting to America and Georgia’s friendship. Glass after glass we drank to the bottom and I began hoping for escape.

Thankfully, 15-hours after the wedding festivities began, we headed for home. I was probably the only person there that rode home in a car driven by someone passably sober. Overall, the wedding was good fun. I highly recommend attending one if you get the chance.

SOKO: THE SURVIVOR

2007-05-12T00:16:00.000-07:00

This is my new puppy Soko, the sole survivor of a litter of 4. The others succumbed to exposure, as the mother had so nurse her new puppies in a roofless dog house in sub-freezing weather. Once we were down to one puppy I finally convinced my host family to bring the mother and pup into the storeroom where they would be warmer.

This worked and Soko lived. In fact, she more than lived, she thrived. With no competition for the milk little Soko ate and ate and ate. Soon little Soko was not so little. She was obese. Like a gigantic burrito perched on stubby legs like cocktail wieners, Soko was a waddling mass of blubber.

Now about six-weeks old, she has shed some of her fat, but she is still a hefty thing that busies herself with chasing her mother around hoping for more milk. Her other food option is the severed chicken-head her mother stashed in the box she sleeps in. She's too lazy to eat the ticks that cling to her, so I spend much of my time picking them off her and squishing them.

As she has grown, she's developed quite a unique personality. She runs about the yard, hiding behind shrubs, occasionally sneaking up on me to attack my pant legs. She has the odd habit of bucking about like a mule, sleeping on my feet and hiding behind me when people come over. She has a good bark on her, far larger than her size.

The neighbors occasionally stop by and ask if they can have her (she has good coloring apparently), but my host mother says it's mine. "It's Ryan's dog. He saved it so he gets to train it." She doesn't seem to happy about it surviving.

While not a problem now, I wonder what is expected of Soko when I leave? Is she supposed to come with me? My host mother already told me that if the other dog was not so loved by her son she would have long ago dumped it in Zestaponi (neighboring industrial town). It's common for Georgians to drop off unwanted pets in the outskirts of large towns or cities.

I would hate such a fate to befall poor Soko. I have a while to figure out a plan for her, but I still worry over it. It's been years since I dumped a housepet at my parents so I'm sure they're ready for another one. Why wouldn't they want a mangy, un-housetrained, tick-ridden Georgian mutt? She adorable.

Total Jim and the Gift of Giving

2007-05-05T04:45:00.000-07:00

This courageous young man (doing a keg stand) is Total Jim Cooley, a good friend of mine who lives in Seattle. After years of sloth and utter laziness Total Jim set aside his part-time job at a driving school and secured a real job, like the kind with a salary and Christmas parties and stock options and stuff. I admired Jim for this, particularly because it made him capable of picking up his end of the bar tab.

But despite Jim's past poverty, he never forgot those who paid his share. This is probably why Jim attempted, at great expense to himself, to send me a bottle of Woodburn Reserve Bourbon, along with three microbrews. It might also be because I split my collectino of clip-on ties with him. Unfortunately for Jim, and even more so for me, these delicious beverages did not make it to the fair country of Georgia, and for once it wasn't due to theft by Georgian postal workers. I will allow the US Postal Service to explain why, in their own words, just as they informed Total Jim Cooley in a letter.

"Dear Mr. Cooley, On April 16th a Priority parcel from you addressed to PCV Ryan Nickum arrived at our mail facility with broken glass inside. The package was wet and soaked with what smelled like an alcoholic beverage. Since we were unable to locate you by telephone we were prompted to write this letter. Because alcoholic beverages are unmailable by individuals (see the attached section 11.7 from the Domestic Mail Manual) we had to hold your package.

We will hold your package for one week, until April 27, 2007, if you would like to pick it up at our facility... or you can call us to give us permission to destroy the contents... Sincerely... USPS."

Obviously, this is a great tragedy. Good bourbon is absent here in Georgia. Sometimes an overpriced bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label arrives in a Tbilisi store or cafe, but this is scotch-whiskey, not real bourbon. It is not a good substitute, although it would not be rejected out-of-hand. The other alternative is a homemade cha cha derived from Walnut husks. It is reputed to be very tasty, but the threat of dying from drinking even tasty moonshine remains moderately high.

While the law forbids the mailing of alcoholic beverages, and as Total Jim Cooley proved, doing so is wrought with perils, I still strongly encourage others to break the law and to mail me microbrews (like the homemade beers my Aunties make and which come in plastic bottles) as well as top shelf bourbon. I recommend using bubble wrap to protect the glass, and also taping the hell out of the box to keep out thirsty postal workers.

These bourbons would be most welcome: Bookers, Baisel Hayden, Makers Mark, Knob Creek, Old Rip Van Winkle, Woodford Reserve.

These bourbons would also be welcome: Jim Beam, Evan Williams, Jack Daniels.
But enough about booze. Let's also talk about Indian pickles.

These bourbons would probably lead to severe headaches, an unappreciative host family, and possibly a justified early termination of my service by Peace Corps officials: Ten High, Old Crow, Wild Turkey

But in case you're someone who is aware that the good people of Georgia go out of their way to see to it that we have plenty to drink, and wonder if more alcohol is really necessary, let me direct you to the topic of food I'd like. It's strange what things you begin to miss when away from home. And I will list those items in the hopes that you fine people will send them to me.

-INDIAN PICKLES These are not like cucumber pickles, nor are they Georgian pickles which often taste as if the cucumbers or peppers have been soaking in a brine of goat urine and skunk cabbage for months. These are Indian pickles, a little like chutney, and come in a variety of flavors, such as brinjal, chili, chili + ginger, lime, mango, mixed, and thecha. There are no doubt other varieties and I long to taste them all.
-Basically any Indian seasoning or foods. Be it freeze-dried camping food or jars of Tikka Masala I will wolf down anything that tastes of Indian food.
-Guacamole seasoning packets: we can make a sort-of-guacamole out of ground peas if we have the seasoning packets.
-Fajita seasoning
-Peanut Butter Twix
-Swedish fish
-Smoked salmon
-Instant hummus
-Dots
-Uniball pens
-Instant Indian food (like they sell at camping stores)
-Any DVDs you've tired of
-BBQ sauce
-Dried parmesan
-Enchilada sauce
-Beef jerky
-Washington State wine, to show my host family.

I also enjoy good books, any DVDs, and Uniball pens. I hope all of you are well. Good luck with your care packages! I look forward to receiving them from you Pojken, Ryan Hubbard, Luther Hubbard, aunts and uncles, cousins, former classmates, those of you who stumbled on this blog by accident, those who feel remorse for past misdeeds and long to make up for them, people with Christian generosity, orphans, doctors, people of the land, Fitz Cahall, Mead Trick, Megan Farley, Diana Ross, former PCVs who feel my pain, and any citizen of Lichtenstein. Please, send me stuff.

Ryan Nickum
c/o Peace Corps/Georgia
PO Box 66
Tbilisi 0194
Republic of Georgia

PS: my puppy is alive and well.

My Favorite People

2007-04-06T06:56:00.000-07:00

I'd like all my friends and family back home to meet John Bento. John does not know me personally. He is a teacher in Portland and will soon be a Peace Corps volunteer here in Georgia. Despite having never met me, John recently mailed me a care package. I will list the contents:
1. Three microbrews from the Deschutes Brewery.
2. BBQ sauce
3. Season 1 of Chappelle Show (DVD)
4. Monty Python: Quest for the Holy Grail (DVD)
5. Big bag of jerky
6. Hot sauce
7. Peanut Butter (chunky)

John Bento is now my favorite person in America (not counting my parents and brother who have sent me wonderful care packages and books for my school). But John Bento is not a blood relative. However, he is a great man. His spirit of service extends well beyond simply teaching America's youth and volunteering for service abroad. John Bento also extends himself to give to others less fortunate: Peace Corps Volunteers. Sure John Bento is a generous hero of the people. Of course he is a great man, but don't be intimidated by that. Inside all of us is a John Bento. Inside everyone--even Luther, Total Jim, Pojken, and all my cousins--is a John Bento waiting to burst out. You can all be like John Bento. You can all send me stuff and I will sing your praises and toast to your health and future.

Ryan Nickum, PCV
c/o Peace Corps/Georgia
PO Box 66
Tbilisi 0194
Republic of Georgia

While writing this update I've discovered that there are two other shining examples of generosity amongst my friends and family: Sean Sirutis and Jesse Carew. These fine gentlemen sent me DVD's of Seahawk games (all losses, i think, but it's the thought that counts). They also included books that my students will like, downloaded podcasts of NPR, a VHS tape of the Powderpuff Girls (a cartoon), as well as Mexican seasonings, an eclectic assortment of movies and books, and a calendar of northwest scenery. Bravo to them. What fine young men. I will bring them back ceramic drinking bowls and drinking horns and religious icons which can be used as drinking vessels. Basically anything oversized you can put wine in. People just keep giving that stuff to me and I'm a kind person and will pass it on to to those who mail me parcels. I will never forget those who send me things from home, particularly, NW microbrews. I will never forget John Bento.

Just Another Day in Georgia

2007-04-02T05:25:00.000-07:00

I awoke and ate a breakfast of vegetable soup with a hamburger patty dumped in and a cup of coffee. After sneaking the dog some food I went to school. As usual one of the English teachers I co-teach with couldn’t come to school. One of the others left in the middle of class because she noticed the ambulance had pulled up in front of her brother’s house (false alarm).

Her brother was to be the computer teacher at my school, but days before they unveiled the new computer room he was in a horrific car accident. His passenger was paralyzed and he smashed up his face and was put into a coma. Nobody was wearing seatbelts, because as everyone knows, seatbelts are bad luck. Taxi drivers cut them out or intentionally jam coins into the receiving end of the device.

Left to teach one of my 6th grade classes by myself, I set the textbook aside and taught them soccer terms and then let them go outside to play a game, insisting they use English terms or I wouldn’t give them the ball.

“Tell me what it’s called or you don’t get the ball... it’s a ‘corner kick.’ Repeat. Corner kick!”

They got the hang of it after a while. When class was over the other sixth grade class rushed up excited and asked if we were going to play soccer also.

“No,” I told them. “You never do your homework. If you all did your homework we could play, but you never do.”

With that valuable information they all hustled off and found the smart kid and dutifully copied his homework before class. My expectations of students have changed dramatically since arriving here. At the beginning I wanted them to all write their own homework, study and succeed. Now I’m satisfied if some of the really poor students will just make the effort to copy an assignment. At least there doing something.

So we played soccer. The 10th and 11th grade boys smoking in the yard came out and ridiculed the 6th formers ability. I told them this was English class and that they should go to their own class. They all thought I was crazy. Go to class? They’re 16-18 years old and male. They should be commended for coming as far as the schoolyard. Most guys their age just stay home. Occasionally they would step onto the field to kick the ball away from one of the girls. In Georgian I would ask them “Are you a little girl? Are you? Then get off the field. These girls are better then you anyway.

After school all the sixth graders, one English teacher and myself went to the house of Sopo, a sixth grade girls who hasn’t been to school in a month because she has a tumor on her cheek. Doctors keep giving her family conflicting diagnosis.’ Some say it’s cancer and some say it’s not. The family suspects the doctors are exaggerating the severity to milk them for more money.

At Sopo’s house I gave her a test to take as a homework assignment. Sopo does not like homework. The family turned on the TV and the kids sat around laughing at cartoons while poor Sopo hung back, ashamed of the bump on her face and all the attention.

Because it was my first time in the house, Sopo’s parents decided they had to show me hospitality, so they served bread, plum sauce, smoked pork fat and home made cha cha, an 80+ proof liquor that tastes like bad vodka and is usually made from any fruit or that’s beginning to rot or is otherwise unfit to eat.

I drank 5 shots in 20 minutes before I finally convinced Sopo’s father that I’d had enough. My students didn’t even bat an eyelash as I put back oversized shots of moonshine and toasted to health, teachers, our school director, America and Georgia’s friendship, etc.

On the way out the door, Sopo’s mother gave me two bottles of plum sauce, which out of politeness I’d complemented earlier. She promised me 10 more bottles in the summer. Then I slipped out and walked down the washed out street that ran down the hillside. Along the way home I walked past the usual groups of staring men, kind of cold and suspect, drunk and giving me a creepy and confused gaze.

At home I helped my host father clear the vineyard of dead vines and helped him chop wood. It was the first time they’ve let me help with the chores.

At dinner, my host father complained he was tired from all the yard work. I teased him that it was because he was old. My host mother said it’s because he drank so much wine in the course of his life. He hinted it might have something to do with his choice in marriage partners. This is how they flirt. But the mere mention of wine inspired him to grab a bottle of homemade red wine from the storeroom. Which storeroom, I’m not sure. It must be hidden because the one I know of only has his homemade blush wine. It’s a little more vinegary than the others, but always served. The red is much better and I suspect my host father keeps it hidden for himself.

We ate vegetable soup and dipped green onions and radishes in salt and ate them. I like it for some reason. After a little while we filled our glasses with the red wine and toasted to our parents, God, our siblings, and their daughter and granddaughter.

After dinner, I checked on the puppy—doing fine. The sun set as the chickens fought over some corn and I read a history book about Tacoma while my host family watched soap operas. At 11pm I went to sleep wondering if Sopo would be okay. I also pondered the absurdity of toasting to health with a shot of toxic homemade hooch. Such a strange land.

English Language Competition

2007-03-16T07:30:00.000-07:00

PICTURE: LOCAL GOVERNOR, ME, 10/11TH GRADE WINNER TATIA, JEFF)
I know you’re all excited to hear the results of the Greater Baghdati English Language Competition. You've been up pacing the house, fingers crossed, wondering if Dimi School was going to come out on top. Well the results are finally in! Dimi School got creamed. But while it did not run away with any 1st, 2nd or 3rd place prizes, it did win three of the four “Most Promising Student” prizes, a sort of honorable mention for the kids who were most eager or engaging. We'll take it.

The whole event was organized by myself, fellow PC volunteer Jeff, and Manana, a local teacher. The judging was done by a dozen Peace Corps volunteers who were also in town for my birthday. Overall, it was a huge success. The Country Director for Peace Corps came, along with the Governor of our region. Both donated prizes and we supplemented them with some free books from the embassy.

Overall, 100+ kids competed in the contest, which involved an interview and essay. I think there are a lot of people in the community who have no idea what the strange Americans are doing here so this gave us a sort of public showing.

“You know those strange guys with the big backpacks? Turns out they’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses. They’re English teachers who put on that event at Mayakofsky School that had all the American girls.”

The only downside was some apparent cheating by at least one local teacher, who fed answers to a couple of students in the 5th grade. It was the only room in which there wasn’t an American volunteer overseeing it. It caused a large controversy in the community, but worse yet it proved that this competition probably isn’t sustainable. When the Peace Corps volunteers leave there’s simply no way this competition could be administered fairly since most teachers not only allow cheating, but actively support it. However, despite this hiccup the competition was a big success and the students who participated were much more active and motivated in class the next week.

PICTURE: JEN, SETH AND THAIS-LYN BIRDWATCH IN MY BANQUET ROOM
The weekend also played host to my 31st birthday, a milestone that my 21-29 year old friends had no problem making fun of—Thanks for the pillbox Ian. My other presents included a decorative dagger, coffee cup, some drinking horns/bowls, beer, salami, a bandana reading “You’re wanted in Williams” and a doll that plays music when you pull the string on its back. It was definitely the most eclectic collection of gifts I’ve ever received and I look forward to regifting many of them.

This is my first birthday in Georgia and it proved as boisterous as my last one in Seattle. I have a very good group of friends here and it was greatly appreciated that so many of them traveled so far to celebrate it.

In a major scheduling error, I designated March 3rd for the competition and my birthday party. This turns out to be Mother’s Day in Georgia and to help my host mother celebrate this I dropped 14 overnight guests on her. When I realized my mistake I tried to reschedule it for a local restaurant, but she thwarted my plan, as well my request that my fellow Americans and I would do all the cooking. It was no use. She insisted. Even after her nephew died and she knew she had to be in Tbilisi for the funeral the next morning she still insisted. So she cooked all day Saturday and stayed up until 2am picking up dishes and wine glasses. She refused our help at every turn, except for carrying a table downstairs. Early the next morning she went to Tbilisi and returned that night. Then she woke up early the next day to wash all the sheets and laundry by hand. My Mother’s Day gift of some colorful jars for storing food seemed paltry compared to everything she did for my birthday.

PICTURE: JEN BRIDENAPS NICHOLAS
Such generosity is pretty overwhelming, so I felt particularly bad that some of the party’s dancing spilled over onto the bearskin rug and broke off a claw. Georgian hospitality knows no limits and Georgian women are the engine behind it. I imagine somewhere in the upper reaches of heaven is a massive banquet hall reserved just for Georgian women, and they are getting drunk as hell and putting their feet up.

Once a year Georgian women get a taste of such heaven on earth, when they gather for International Women’s Day and hold a women-only supra. They eat and they drink and the men get no part of it. A few years ago in my village the women got so drunk they blocked the only road through town for 4 hours. No taxis or buses could get through as they sang and danced and locked arms across the street.

2007-03-16T07:04:00.000-07:00

I recently got back from a 5-day trip to Armenia with Paige, Nicholas, Lyssa, Ariana and Seth. It was an awesome vacation and left us Georgian volunteers a little envious of our neighbor to the South. Overall, the country seemed poorer then Georgia, but the capital city of Yerevan was much wealthier and safer then Tbilisi, and more importantly, possessed much better restaurants and beer. I’m sad to admit that I didn’t eat much Armenian food, choosing instead to dine at various Syrian, Mexican and Lebanese restaurants.

Anyone who has traveled with me knows I’m lead primarily by my stomach and I’m afraid that I’m more impressed with good hummus then old churches. However, Armenia had many more comforts then just fantastic food. Particularly welcome was the lack of drunk men leering at the American girls. There were still plenty of shady cab drivers, stray dogs and garbage, but overall Yerevan was a real vacation from good old Georgia.

Since none of us know Russian or Armenian we had to make due with hand gestures and grunts, something I proved more talented at then my companions. My Georgian is famously bad amongst my friends and I do quite a bit of my communicating in this way on a daily basis. Also, as I learned from traveling with my father, if you want to order chicken at the restaurant, but don’t know the word, you can always cluck and flap your arms like wings. It’s not as good as being fluent in the local language, but it is effective.

Thanks to air pollution and Soviet-era architecture, Yerevan is not the most beautiful city in the world. However, it rests in the shadow of Mr. Ararat, a gigantic snow covered volcano that supposedly provided a resting place for Noah’s Arc. The clouds hid it most of the days, so I couldn’t get a good photo, but if you have the time to Google it I’m sure you will find some incredible pictures.

While there, we visited the Armenian Genocide Museum, a very informative and depressing tour through the 20th century’s first holocaust (1.5 million systematically killed by the Turks and Kurds). Turkey continues to deny the whole event and it’s soured relations between the two countries.

We visited a museum near the statue of Mother Armenia that focused on the recent war with Azerbaijan. Unfortunately nothing was in English so we left without much understanding of the conflict.

We also visited the Garni Temple, built in honor of Helios, the Roman god of the sun. The taxi ride through the country lead us through villages seriously damaged by recent earthquakes. Coupled with all the Soviet-era relics we were constantly reminded of the various tragedies that have befallen poor Armenia.

To lighten the mood we toured a local brandy distillery. We walked through rows of oak barrels in which brandy was ageing. They showed us one barrel that they will open when Armenia and Azerbaijan sign a peace treaty. It’s the only barrel they hope to open before it gets the chance to age properly. Eventually we made it to the tasting room, where we sampled 3, 10 and 20 year old brandy. Amateurs that we were, I think we astutely managed to taste the complexities of each and walked away with a pretty good buzz.

While visiting the Echmiadzin, the Vatican for the Armenian Apostolic Church, we failed to sneak in with a tour group that got to see the pagan fire temple in the basement, but we still saw some impressive religious relics, although there was no sign of the spear that pierced Jesus’ side during the crucifixion, something that was promised in Lonely Planet.

We also visited Geghard Monastery, a very old Church built into the side of a canyon. The stone carvings were a blend of Christian and pagan symbols and I found myself impressed with the artistic depictions of animals interspersed with crosses.

There was a spring inside that is said to keep one from ageing. I find that stuff pretty hokey, but as I’d just turned 31 a few days before I figured it couldn’t hurt, so I splashed some on my face. Time will tell.

We spent one night hanging out with some Armenian Peace Corps Volunteers, who played good hosts to us and we got to discuss the similarities and differences between our two countries and programs. One volunteer was from East Texas who had lived in Seattle 10 years before coming to Peace Corps so Paige and I pestered her with questions.

On the last day we went to the National Art Museum, which boasts the third best art collection in the former Soviet Union. Much of it was obtained by looting during the Soviet withdrawal from Germany during WWII and there were some big names in the gallery. Unfortunately, we were the only guests and the staff decided to call it a day early, so we were ushered out of room after room by impatient workers. It was like a chase scene from a Scooby Doo cartoon, as we sped from one room to another, racing against the staff that was locking doors behind us as fast as they could. It’s hard to see 7 floors of art in 45 minutes, especially with the sun glare reflecting off the protective glass on the paintings, while in others the lights were off completely. We left in a bitter mood and, as the photo below shows, Seth gave it the big thumbs down.

The final night we had more Mexican food and margaritas, and then retreated to a bar called “Texas.” We had heard that Armenia was even more socially conservative then Georgia so were surprised to find ourselves beside a table of boisterous lesbians. The other tables took no notice of it and the women danced together without a seeming care in the world. It felt like any bar in Seattle and it was reassuring to see such tolerance in the Caucuses. The only prejudice proved to be against poor Paige, as the neighboring table slighted Texas, an odd insult considering the name of the bar.

The next day we took a series of taxis and minibuses back home and spoke of falafel and enchiladas. It was a great trip.

Pushup: The Great Motivator

2007-03-16T05:11:00.000-07:00

Try as I might, I just couldn’t seem to get through to the boys in my 6th grade class. Motivational talks, individual attention, assistance in finding the text book in their bag, making sure the homework assignment was copied down—I’ve tried it all and I just couldn’t seem to get them to do their homework. That is until I turned to pushups.

As a kid, I had sadists for football coaches. Some of them had military experience and the army taught them some valuable motivational techniques. Bear crawls, pushups, leg lifts, burpees, running laps—they had a variety of ways to ensure we ran the correct routes, remembered the snap count and blocked the right person. I used to fear those men, and fear is a great motivator.

So the first day a student forgets his homework—“Teacher... duh... uhh... homework? Uhh, ha ha ha, it’s at my house”—I tell them the next time that happens they will do ten pushups in front of the class.

The desired reaction isn’t instantaneous. They giggle and squeal at my threat, then return to hitting each other in the heads with pens and throwing their hats around the room. Soon they’ve forgotten. However, at the next lesson when they come unprepared I line them up in front of the class and make them do pushups. I make them count out loud. It helps them learn numbers.

Ten isn’t so much, but when I assign homework that day I tell them it will be 20 pushups next time. Some don’t believe me and when the lesson arrives they find themselves face down on the floor, arms shoulder width apart, feet together, back straight—and one, two, three, four...

Since the girls all wear skirts at my school I threaten them with wall-sits or make them write sentences on the board. They like to write sentences.

I recommend this technique highly. My counterparts thought I was crazy at first, but they came around. And more importantly you see a marked improvement in your male students. It won’t be long until they are dutifully copying their homework from the smart girls in class. At the next lesson they will have carefully copied sentences such as: “In winter I wear skirt, tights, blouse, and scarf.”

The ones that don’t learn keep doing pushups and someday when they are digging ditches because they never studied they will think of me fondly because their arms will be big and strong and they will dig with ease.

Possible Transcript of My Motivational Speech as Translated By My Counterpart

2007-02-25T08:07:00.000-08:00

ME: If you will be so kind as to translate for me I would like to talk to the class again about their need to improve.
COUNTERPART Of course. Attention students, Ryan is going to give one of his talks where he rambles on and on about how you need to improve. Please lower your head and look ashamed. If any of you laugh I will twist your ears.

ME: Today only two of you have done your homework. I am sick and tired of you never doing your homework.
CP: Ryan says he is very sleepy and that your laziness has given him diarrhea again.

ME: I know you can do this work. I expect more from you and you need to expect more from yourself.
CP: Ryan thinks you do not write homework because you are bad and lazy and stupid. He wants you to write your homework.

ME: Did you just call them stupid?
CP: No. Why, do you want me to?

ME: Of course not.
CP: Good.

ME: If you need help after school with your homework I will gladly help you. I am here for two-years and my entire job is to help you learn English. I will not charge you for these lessons. It is my job.
CP: Ryan says if you need help after school he will tutor you but he charges 100 lari per hour more than what I cost so it’s better if you pay me to tutor you.

ME: I have nothing else to do in this small village. There is no dance-club, no movie theater, no Internet access and all my friends live in America. I have lots of free time to help you.
CP: Ryan says he thinks the village is very beautiful and he enjoys our many unique foods .He came here to learn our ways and to speak English to us. He will probably keep talking for a very long time.

ME: I came here to help you learn English so you can get a job and help improve your country.
CP: Ryan came here to find a Georgian wife. In America women are very fat. You have seen TV. What I say is true. He is very old now and out of options. If you have an unmarried older sisters please tell them to invite him to their home. He needs a wife very badly. He would not be yelling all the time if he indulged in some of the privileges that come with marriage.

ME: That seemed kind of long. What else did you tell them?
CP: I told them why it is important for them to learn English.

ME: Oh. Very good.
CP: No problem. Now Ryan will continue speaking nonsense.

ME: English is very important to learn. It is the language of global business.
CP: People speak English in business.

ME: Or maybe they’d be better off learning Chinese, right?
CP: Why Chinese? Do you know Chinese?

ME: No. It was just a little joke. Never mind.
CP: Ryan, you are always so very funny.

ME: If you will not study or do your work then it is pointless for me to be here.
CP: Ryan doesn’t feel appreciated and misses his mother.

ME: I don’t have to live here. I could be home eating cheeseburgers and watching American football with my friends instead of living here in this small village. If you don’t improve and start working harder then I am going to leave and go back to America. Look at the map. Here is Georgia and here is America. I am going to fly here if you don’t start doing your work.
CP: Ryan says if you all don’t start copying Lana’s homework everyday he will never get us the TV and DVD player he promised us. You all want that TV and DVD player don’t you? Of course you do. We will watch “Titanic” and any Brad Pitt movie that comes out. God, is he hot or what? Now, everybody nod your head and look concerned or there won’t be any movies.

ME: Thanks for translating.
CP: You are welcome. I think they will work harder now.

CHRISTMAS VACATION PART1

2007-01-27T04:28:00.000-08:00

With the weather in Georgia turning everything into mud and slush it seemed like a good time to high tail it out of there. Also, school was out for a few weeks so there wasn’t much going on besides power outages, pig slaughters, idle kids with firecrackers and occasional dog fights and car crashes.

So six fellow volunteers and I headed to Turkey My crew entailed Paige and the five volunteers from my training village: Nicholas, Heidi, Jen and Van. A snowstorm nearly kept us from reaching the border, but the bus pushed on through. Our cab driver wasn’t quite a skilled and it didn’t take him long to lose control of the car, turn 180 degrees and cross the median, nearly plowing into oncoming traffic, before parking the thing in a snow bank on the other side of the road. Thanks ass*$&%. You’re a champ!

Funny thing is after seven months in Georgia this didn’t even increase our heart rate and we merrily hopped out of the cab and helped push it back on the road. We eventually crossed the border and took various transport to Trabzon, a city in eastern Turkey on the Black Sea. Entering Turkey after 7 months in Georgia is kind of like stepping out of the tool shed and into the manor. Head scarves suddenly appear, the building get more modern, and he number of drunk men decreases dramatically. The peril of Turkish roads that I recall from visiting seven years ago has given way to something modern and amazing. The ride was incredible, especially after our near death experience.

Trabzon proved to be a fairly pretty city, with it’s numerous minarets rising above the snow covered roofs of the city. We slept in a college dormitory for a low price thanks to a kindly student who saw us standing on a corner looking stupid.

The next morning we flew to Izmir in western Turkey and stayed at a hostel in Selcuk, walking distance from the ancient Greek ruins of Ephesus. See below.

We experienced the full court press of Turkish “hospitality” as the hostel staff fell over themselves in an effort to accompany us every time we left the building, intent on leading us to cafes and shops they had some sort of connection to. Clearly they got some kind of commission for this and it took all our strength to keep them at bay. But their added pressure (and surcharge for heat) didn’t spoil what is really an amazing place. My dad and I visited Ephesus seven years ago and I consider myself extremely lucky to have seen it once let alone twice.

After two days here we headed for Istanbul. We did not purchase our bus tickets from the man who followed me around as I compared prices, calling me stupid for not buying a ticket from him and threatening to kill me if I liked President Bush.

We entered Istanbul from the east, crossing the bridge that spans from Asia to Europe, which is sort of cool. Since I was in Istanbul last all the street cats have grown fat and friendly and the carpet shop owners have toned down their overzealous sales pitch. Seriously, the street cat thing was striking. They were so fat! Last I was here they were scrawny and scab covered. This time the shop owners had stopped kicking them and instead fed them the entrails of the sheep they slaughtered (it was a Muslim holiday celebrating Abrahams near sacrifice of his son).

But the rug shop owners weren’t totally silent and they had some new tricks to entice customers into their shops. The worst attempt to attract a customer was directed to Heidi: “Excuse me miss, you dropped something... your smile.” For some reason that was hilarious to me and I turned and laughed at him like a total jerk. I couldn’t help it.

Part of the wonder of Istanbul was the shear contrast with Georgia. For instance, while Georgians waiters ignore you and often look pained at the smallest inconvenience, such as entering the restaurant, Turkish waiters in Istanbul are completely opposite. Instead of glaring at you for ordering they race out of their restaurant to read you everything on the menu in an attempt to draw you in. Well, pick your poison I guess. However, after seven months of eating Georgian food almost exclusively we were ready for a change of cuisine and the Turkish waiters could have been unwashed hippies for all we cared so long as they served us something different.

The first night in Istanbul we passed on Turkish food though since we stumbled upon the Mexican food chain El Torrito. We shelled out the cash to taste guacamole, something we’ve been talking about endlessly almost since the moment our plane touched down in Georgia.

For New Years, most everyone opted to go to a crowded public square where a few Georgian Peace Corps volunteers were groped by a perverted mob last year. Paige and I chickened out and retreated to our hotel’s roof and attempted to drink the most vile and overpriced champagne ever made. I talked the store clerk down to half the price but still spent $15 on something that wasn’t fit for pig slop. Okay, I guess that’s not really that expensive but it was worth no more than 15 cents. I’m not much of a haggler. We left the unfinished bottle in front of the crappiest hostel in hopes that some derelict backpacker would think it was some kind of prize. No such luck.

Much of our time in Istanbul was spent trying to arrange transport to Greece and confirm a hotel reservation, but we still got to see much of the city and I was able to take some photos from the roof of the hotel my dad and I stayed in when we were here before. The view didn’t quite compare to when we stayed there as it was a dreary winter day instead of a beautiful summer evening, but the panoramic view of the water and the mosques rising up on the hill was still impressive.

In addition the mosques and the view of the water, the other highlight of Istanbul was Starbucks. I openly admit to being a typical Seattle coffee snob and I would never go to Starbucks back home unless there was simply no alternative. However, having been without filtered coffee for seven months and having recently had a double tall latte at Starbucks I now take back everything bad I ever said about the evil corporation. If I had the power I would put them on every street corner in the entire world. I want to commend Howard Schulz for bringing his brand of coffee to the rest of the world, but don’t give up now Mr. Shulz! Georgia awaits your glory! And right now I frankly don’t care if he sold my beloved Seattle Supersonics to some jerk who’s going to move them to Oklahoma. He knows how to brew coffee and steam milk. That man deserves a hug and an apology from me.

CHRISTMAS VACATION PART2

2007-01-27T03:45:00.000-08:00

On January 2nd Paige and split from the pack and took off for Greece, catching the night train to Thessalonica. We arrived in time to catch a bus to Athens where we had dinner in view of a lit up and ancient Greek temple. I had expected Athens to be a dreary and polluted city (as I’d been told), but was actually really impressed by it. Our hotel turned out to be in a bad neighborhood (our cab driver tried to sell us a 44 magnum for protection—a joke?) but I still felt far safer then I do in Tbilisi during the day.

The next morning we caught a ferry to the island of Santorini, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen in my life. Santorini is a volcano that erupted 2,500 years ago and the town is essentially built on the edge of the crater looking out at the Mediterranean. Most nights we would sit in a café on the edge of the cliff and watch the sun set into the sea. It was absolutely spectacular. I can’t describe it.

Winter is not the tourist high season for Santorini so most of the hotels and restaurants are closed, but on the upside we practically had the whole island to ourselves. Our main company was a herd of stray dogs that escorted us everywhere. The locals seemed kind of frightened by them but not us. We had to get rabies vaccinations for Georgia so we were protected. But even without that, I’m now an expert in warding off aggressive stray dogs. I sought to prove this to Paige at one point when we came upon one stray that began barking at us aggressively from a distance. I bent down to pick up a rock and once I’d found one I turned to face the dog only to discover he was already upon us, eagerly trying to lick my hand.

We spent a week there, doing little more then sleep in late, drink filtered coffee, wander about the narrow alleyways, explore the island on foot and eat kebabs and baklava. We were particularly impressed with the warmth of the people, who worked long hours but were incredibly laid back and generous. Also, they kept giving us free stuff. “Here, have a bottle of wine. My husband makes it... Here are some scones for your coffee tomorrow... I’ll throw in a few more baklava... Desert, on the house.... Have some chocolate cake?”

I recommend Santorini.

Unfortunately all good things must end and we had to head back to Athens for our return flight. We spent the day there touring various ancient sites, including The Acropolis, which is the site of the Parthenon. A big deal I guess.

And it was really impressive, but it was overshadowed by a site much less ancient—the American restaurant chain T.G.I. Fridays. If you’ve eaten there in the states then you know it serves average burgers and steaks, absurdly named cocktails, and all in an atmosphere so fake and repugnant it borders on nauseating. The wait staff wears goofy suspenders littered with buttons, ridiculous hats, and if you’re unfortunate enough to be there on your birthday the whole staff gathers around your table and sings a peppy version of “Happy Birthday.” It’s despicable and appalling, a foul and disgusting tribute to the excessive and degenerate aspects of American culture... that is unless you’re a homesick American Peace Corps volunteer. If that’s the case then you will LOVE EACH AND EVERY ASPECT OF IT, right down to the Ghostbusters movie poster and license plates littering the wall. You will be more excited then when you went to Chucky Cheese the first time as a seven-year-old. To you, this will be like Disney Land on acid on Mars. This will be the home of all of your hopes and dreams. This will be your Never Never Land, a magical land of everything that Georgia isn’t and everything that Georgia doesn’t have.

I now know how Charlie felt when he first entered the Chocolate Factory with that golden ticket. TGIFridays is heaven on earth.

You want Buffalo wings? They serve them hot and fiery with blue cheese sauce.

Mozzarella sticks? They come seasoned and breaded with a side of marinara sauce, just like back home.

Potato skins with bacon and cheddar? Check.

Chicken quesadilla with salsa and guacamole? Check.

Steaks cooked to medium rare? Yep.

You want a gigantic goblet filled with a deluxe blended margarita? They can do that.

You want four of them, one right after another? Coming right up--although they do give you a dirty look. Does that judgmental glare deter you? No. No it does not. You relish each and every frosty sip. You sip long and lovingly until you give yourself a brain-freeze and IT WARMS YOUR VERY SOUL.

Nothing can spoil this. Not the stupid decorations on the wall. Not the snooty waiter who looks like a vampire. Not even Paige insisting on singing every single word to an entire Counting Crows song at the table—Why did she do that?

But regardless, nothing can top this. This is the pinnacle. This is the mountaintop. This is Shangri-La.

But then the next day you have to give it all up. You have to go to the airport and suffer through layovers and travel’s inevitable hiccups. You have to take the bus ride from hell and get stranded at the border aboard a bus full of very friendly Azeri’s who are probably lacking the correct travel documents. You have to abandon the bus and cross on foot. You end up getting back to site a day late, costing you a valuable future travel day. And then you have to wait for an hour and a half for no reason at the horrid bus station in Kutaisi before your mini bus driver will muster the energy to take you to your village. And once there you have to trudge up that long muddy street in the rain to your home.

For dinner you get a dish made from scraps off the head/face of a pig and suspended in a cube of gelatin. Cheek and brain and gristle and snout. This could be really bad. This could be soul destroying. After the culinary wonders you’ve just experienced this could be the nail in the coffin that sends you running back to America

“Mommy, I missed you.”

But the truth of the matter is this pig face in Jello actually tastes alright. The fact is there’s something wrong with you, some quirk or glitch that makes you okay with this. You sort of derive an odd satisfaction from this.

And luckily you’re happy to see your host family (who are really cool) and there’s a lot of laughter as you recount your past few weeks in your now deteriorated Georgian (not that it wasn’t awful before you left). But you manage to understand the latest village gossip from them.

And then you head up to your unheated and freezing cold room, climb into your sleeping bag and for the first time in the past few weeks your room isn’t uncomfortably hot. You’re not going to get up at 2am to search in vain for a shutoff valve on the radiator. You’re not going to complain that your room is an oven. Not now. Currently your room is a perfect and balmy 40 something degrees. So you lay shivering and comfy in bed thinking about some projects you’re excited to get started on in your community. “This isn’t so bad,” you admit to yourself, as the hail starts to pound the tin roof and the lightning and thunder rattles your windows. You pull your wool hat down over your ears, getting cozy and comfortable. There are lots of good things about being back in Georgia and you’re even a little excited to return to work and you’re definitely well rested and recharged.

But don’t think I’ve totally lost my mind. As I mentioned to Paige in the text message I sent her that first night back in site: “I wish we were still in Santorini.”

Best sunset in the whole world.

TOM SCHREIBER

2007-01-27T03:08:00.000-08:00

Peace Corps service has given me so much: the chance to live in another country, immerse myself in another culture, and pad my feelings of self-worth by bettering the world. Thanks Peace Corps!

However, the best thing about being here is that I got to know Tom Schreiber. The real Tom Schreiber, not that poser Tom Schreiber from Michigan.

Tom Schreiber is completely and totally The Man. He’s the coolest guy I’ve ever met. If I could choose one person, living or dead, to have dinner with, I would choose Tom Schreiber. And if Jesus or Abraham Lincoln were given the same choice they would choose Tom Schreiber also.

Want to know how Neil Armstrong felt when he walked on the moon? It’s probably a lot like how I feel when I get to grab a beer with Tom Schreiber. All that stuff on the Internet about how awesome Chuck Norris is? Total crap. Those are plagiarized accounts about Tom Schreiber.

Why is Tom God’s gift to everything? I don’t even need to answer that. Tom is what he is. Men want to be him and ladies want to be with him. But all that glory and envy doesn’t go to his head. He’s totally laid back, probably because he’s from Cleveland! Cleveland! He’s had three weddings, all to the same woman and he’s never been divorced. How does he do that? He’s like magic or something.

In addition to being the guy who texts me Seahawk scores and game summaries, he also conspires to stream NFL games on the web on Christmas day, and answers all my questions regarding NGOs. But Tom’s an even more clutch friend because he gives the best pep talk in Peace Corps.

When you’ve spent another frustrating and demoralizing day at school and are pondering who lobotomized all your male students and whether you can get a direct flight home to the states Tom is there for you. When you are down Tom comes through with his D-Day analogy speech and makes everything better.

But the coolest thing about Tom Schreiber is he once spent a week hanging out with Anna Kournikova. I don’t want to get into the specifics of it, but needless to say that’s one reason why Tom Schreiber is my idol and hero. He’s also a very good friend and one hell of an American.

DOGS

2007-01-27T02:29:00.000-08:00

This is Jesse, my host family’s dog. We used to have two, but the little one’s skin condition cleared it up allowing its hair to grow back and some cousin or something decided they wanted it and now it’s gone. Sometimes I think the language barrier keeps certain details from me and sometimes I think it’s just that simple.

Anyway, now Jesse is our only dog and she’s plenty to keep track of. Jesse’s hobbies include wiping her muddy paws on my leg, barking at everyone who walks in the gate, begging for food and humping every dog within 25 square miles. Brave Jesse is the village skank and I have to sleep with cotton balls in my ears to drown out the sounds that her and her male-company make outside my window.

I spend a good amount of my waking hours stepping outside to hurl small rocks at the numerous mutts attempting to impregnate poor Jessie. I’m almost embarrassed with how good my aim is. Our yard is full pained yelps from horny dogs that I’ve tagged with a rock to the flank as they scurry for the fence.

But even away from home Jessie’s scandalous lifestyle is a burden. Recently she slipped out the gate while I was walking to school, racing down the road to catch up with me. I had no time to take her back so she followed me on the 20-minute walk. Soon the male dogs in the area picked up her scent and came after her. I spent the last few kilometers hurling rocks at them to save Jesse’s already compromised public reputation. I can’t vouch for her purity once I was inside the school, but I know from experience that if the students see dogs mating in the schoolyard (and there’s a lot of it) they chase them with rocks and sticks.

Throwing rocks at dogs here is a common occurrence and the locals have impressive aim. They also throw them at cows when they sneak in the garden to eat the vegetables. Everyone has their own method, but I prefer a medium sized rock with round edges. I set them out beside every door and keep a few in my pocket. My method is to use a skip shot. The advantage of this method is you’re less likely to overshoot the target and it reduces the velocity of the trajectory. I fake the throw once to get them turned and then I pelt them. This reduces the chance of a face shot. Some of my friends have grown a little concerned about this new hobby.

Jesse, despite her sinful ways, has her upsides. She’s able to live on a diet almost entirely made up of old bread crusts. I try to supplement this with occasional stale bits of cheese and the fat from the meat I’m served. She is also loyal and can balance on her hind legs while she begs to be fed.

The dog is actually my host brother’s, but he lives in Greece now and nobody else really likes the thing. He made his mother promise to care for it while he’s gone. She confessed to me the other day that if Shako didn’t love the dog so much she would have taken it to Zestaponi a long time ago.

In Georgia, when you want to rid yourself of a dog you just dump it in the nearest city.

So I am now the dog’s best friend and I spend a good amount of time petting it and untangling burrs and twigs from her hair. Neighbors come and go staring at me with morbid curiosity as I pull Jesse’s ticks off with a crappy pair of green tweezers.

All summer I thought mosquitoes were attacking my ankles and calves at night, only to learn it was actually Jesse’s fleas. During the summer, to reduce Jesse’s flea problem (and odor) my host father and I would take Jesse to the river. The dog’s afraid of the water so Omari grabs it by the scruff of the neck and hurls it off the riverbank (10 feet above the river), launching it into the current. This delights him to no end and he manages to get a minimum 360-degree rotation before the dog hits the water. It’s quite impressive and the dog has come to kind of like it.

The first time I saw him do it I was swimming when suddenly the dog flew over my head and splashed down beside me. Hi Jessie.

Georgians have a generally different attitude towards dogs then Americans. The upside is that you’ll never see one in a sweater and little Gortex booties being walked around on a leash like in the states (see photo below). Also, nobody here takes their animals to pet psychics or psychiatrists, as I know some of my friends have back in the states.

However, like everything else western, this is changing, as Georgians continue adopting the worst aspects of our culture. Recently I saw a black poodle in my village with bleached bangs.

Rabies is a very real problem in Georgia and dog bites are common (I’ve received some sort of vaccination). I know a few people who have been attacked by dogs while walking at night and I know one person who saw an old woman attacked by two dogs in the middle of a city park in the afternoon. Dogs cause a lot of problems here and Georgians are baffled with the way we Americans are so fond of them.

My American friends and I compounded this perception while we were living in my training village. Our friend Van’s host family had a little dog named Chico. He was stinky and dirty but very friendly and we all took a strong liking to him.

I don’t know why, but one day we decided to hold a supra in the dog’s honor. We made fajitas and virgin mojitos and made toasts to brave Chico’s heroism, creating various fictional deeds. There was a lot of talk amongst the village about the Americans holding a supra for a dog.

Megobrebs, Homies, Amgios, Etc.

2007-01-05T06:32:00.000-08:00

In addition to acquiring two host families, both of which are full of really wonderful people, I’ve made a lot of close friends. Peace Corps attracts quite a cast of characters and a lot of what makes this experience so special is the people I’ve gotten to know here.

This is my good friend Nicholas, dressed up for Halloween as one of the characters on the Spanish-language soap operas that are all the rage over here. Nicholas was my roommate the first 10 days and we both lived in Kheltubani for training. His host family there put on 11AM supras that, after some wine, turned into Toni Braxton dance parties. Somewhere out there is video of all of us dancing like idiots in a banquet room. Anyone who has seen me try to dance realizes the horror of such a site. I pray that Nicholas gets hold of the tape. He’s a really cool guy, a close friend and does an incredible Whitney Houston impression.

The girl on the left is Jen and the girl on the right is Heidi. While they are both good friends of mine they are also my sworn enemies, as they are always smudging my glasses with their thumbs and sending me text messages reminding me that I am old and bald. Someday down the road Jen and Heidi will be old maids, sitting beside each other at a country club completing a puzzle and insulting the wait staff.

Baby Seth and Lyssa. Baby Seth is only 21, yet he's a virtual encyclopedia and a fun guy to hang out with. Someday he will run for congress as a Republican and I will hopefully have gathered enough dirt on him to bring down his candidacy. However, I would recommend him for a cabinet position. Seth enjoys virtual celebrity status here, thanks to his blond hair and boyish looks. I enjoy no such status. In fact, no one in my village really paid any attention to me or the other volunteer (Jeff) until Lyssa came to visit us for the day. After that everyone wanted to meet us and inquire about the tall blond girl.

This is Jeff, a good friend and a really funny guy who also lives in the village next to mine. The room in the picture is not mine. It belongs to Paige’s host 11 and 13 year old host sisters. We were visiting Paige’s site to judge a language competition and we stayed the night in the room. The walls are decorated with pictures of their favorite Russian pop stars, Brazilian footballers and models. The girls' parents are particularly embarrassed about the posters. Georgia and American families are really not so different.

Here we are hanging out in the vineyard at Jeff’s house. That’s me, Ian Jobe, Jeff, Lyssa and Paige. Ian Jobe is one of my favorite people here. He is truly a man for all seasons. If I had a sister I would hide her away from Ian, but it wouldn’t work because his raw charisma is just that strong. He’s like a young Barry White or Marvin Gaye. Ladies love Ian Jobe and who can blame them.
The girl on the right is Paige. She is an upstanding young woman, with good values and excellent table manners. She is a solid Peace Corps volunteer, skilled teacher, and very funny girl. She practices excellent tooth care, is responsible, thoughtful, and is caring of children and animals. She is clearly the product of outstanding parenting.

Free Time

2007-01-05T05:29:00.000-08:00

In addition to our teaching, Peace Corps volunteers are involved in various other projects. We judge English language competitions, offer teacher trainings and organize summer camps and other activities. Recently Peace Corps volunteers took part in the Breast Health Awareness Walk in Kutaisi. I photographed the event, including this picture of Georgia’s first lady at the self-examination info table. I felt like the paparazzi as I jostled to get through the crowd to get this and a dozen other shots.

But we still find time a lot of time for ourselves. Being a Peace Corps Volunteer in Georgia allows us the rare opportunity to explore the region along with our fellow volunteers. Here Brandon, Lyssa, Nicholas and I are standing in a “Wishing Tree.” People tear bits of cloth and tie them around the branches to make a wish. As volunteers, we dutifully pick up the ones that have fallen and retie them to the tree. We are givers, humanitarians in every sense of the word. There is no limit to our hard work over here. Please write your congressman and ask that they increase our living stipend. Without a raise I’m afraid I’ll never be able to continue touring wineries like this one.

Top row from me: Owner of the winery, Arianna (Brooklyn), Peg (Portland), Sarah (Back in the US now), Lyssa (Montana).
Bottom Row: Brandon (back in the US), Paige (Texas) and Nicholas (Sacramento).
The owner of the winery showed off former President Sheverdnadze’s personal wine cellar, including bottles of French wine from the 1800s. We purchased a few much newer bottles (2006) and Brandon purchased a bottle of cha cha—homemade booze that tastes like rubbing alcohol. And Brandon, if you’re reading this I want to thank you on behalf of all your fellow volunteers for giving me that bottle of cha cha before you departed for America. At a volunteer party we opened it and I had everyone take a shot and toast to you. Unfortunately, that cha cha was so horrid and poisonous it ended a few volunteers evenings before they could really begin. The hangovers and suffering that bottle of cha cha caused was unforgivable. We all blame you. Oh, by the way... the winter gloves you also gave me are totally saving me right now... I forgive you.

Georgia is a small country with a rich history making it an easy place to play tourist. Everywhere you turn it seems there’s an old castle or a crumbling 1,000+ year old church. On weekends we try to go on hikes, tour old churches, like this one—Baghrati in nearby Kutaisi. There is also the Stalin museum in Gori (regrettably the tyrant is a local boy and a source of pride to some Georgians).

This is an old cave monastery near Gori. The girl in the picture is Keti, one of my host sisters from my training village (Kheltubani).

PERIL

2006-12-24T23:54:00.000-08:00

The morning commute in Kheltubani.

If someday I don’t return to the United States it could be because I’ve taken to the mountains, shunning modernity to eke out a living as a goat herder or moon shiner. However, it is far more likely the cause would be my untimely demise thanks to some kind of traffic accident. Georgian roads are among the most dangerous in the world.

Here in Georgia donkey carts share the highway with huge, lumbering, soviet-era trucks. Speeding Mercedes Benz’s whiz past decrepit sedans filled to the windows with cabbage, and farm animals roam the streets as if it belongs to them. Cows often sleep in the road on blind corners. Pigs cross thee street with no consideration for oncoming traffic and stray dogs hurl themselves into passing cars with regularity. Just the other day I watched a chicken fail in its attempt to cross the road. The people I was in the car with roared with laughter at the site of a bloody and mangled chicken cart-wheeling into the ditch.

I’ve even seen bulls fighting in the middle of street, drivers rushing to their cars to move them before the bulls bash into the sides. This picture displays something we call “cow slalom” and Georgian drivers are highly skilled in the art of swerving through a cattle herd at high rate of speed.

Roads are generally absent of warning signs, medians, passing lanes and often pavement. Two lane roads often have four lanes of traffic. Everyone with a car capable of speeding does so. Oncoming traffic signals to you that they see you by swerving slightly into your lane. At night, you flash your high beams at the oncoming car at the last second to let him know you’re there, even though this temporarily blinds the driver. It is no wonder Georgia is a very Christian nation. I’ve witnessed many a non-believer suddenly praying to God when their bus pulled out to pass on a blind corner only to find a semi barreling down on them.

Drunk driving, while against the law, is about as common as driving to work with a cup of coffee in the states, not that drunk driving there is a rarity. I know a man whose hobby was to get drunk and drive around the village. After a supra, one driver (who consumed 20 glasses of wine) told me not to worry about his driving because he’d eaten a lot of food. It was actually one of the safest rides I’ve had in Georgia, partially because he was concentrating on the road and partly because the road was so rutted with potholes he simply couldn’t get the thing up to speed. Also, he has the alcohol tolerance of an adult rhino and wasn’t even drunk. It was incredible.

I know another man who drove his car, along with his wife and baby son, right into the side of his house after a wine-fueled supra. Everyone was fine, but just hours before he’d insisted on driving a bunch of us home.

When I’m walking around the village, drunk men frequently stop their cars to offer me rides. They become confused when I decline. One day, Jeff and I were walking past a row of taxi drivers, who were sitting on the hoods of their cabs drinking wine. “Americans!!” they shouted. “Come and drink with us!” We made up some meeting we had to go to and slipped away, their slurred and pleading voices fading into the distance.

Now, when hailing a cab, before I negotiate the fare I try to smell my cabbie to tell if he’s been drinking. The same goes for getting on a minibus.

Peace Corps policy forbids us from operating a motor vehicle of any kind. Thus, if I were to offer myself as a designated driver and Peace Corps found out I would be kicked out of the country. Working for the federal government is very interesting.

UNBEARABLE SUFFERING

2006-12-01T03:05:00.000-08:00

Like me, I presume you also believe the children are our future. Raise them well and...

But here in the Republic of Georgia youngsters of all ages are faced with challenges Americans can’t begin to fathom. For instance, imagine spending your formative years in a small aluminum bucket. This poor child spends 20 minutes every three days stuck in this pail. It is an injustice.

I’ve seen kids playing soccer with a deflated soccer ball or throwing rocks at turkeys simply because they have no other means of entertainment. But seeing this broke my heart. What kind of world do we live in where a child spends his weekend transporting manure by wheelbarrow up a gradual hill with only his brute force and the partial aid of a friendly cyclist? How do you think he sleeps at night? With terrible nightmares, I suppose.

One can only imagine what horrible pollutants this boy was trying to avoid as I passed him the other day. Low grad plutonium or simply everyone in town burning their garbage on the same day? Still, he remains optimistic, unlike his friend who shrieked and ran for the woods when I went to take this picture. Dreadful.

One of the greatest resources Georgia lacks is celebrities. Without a Tom Cruise or a Brad Pitt in attendance participants at this year’s Breast Health Awareness Walk in Kutaisi had to turn to Peace Corps volunteers for autographs. Seriously. This is really sad. I’ve signed dozens of autographs since arriving here and for little more than possessing an American passport.

But Georgians aren’t the only ones who are forced to suffer. Just imagine my own sacrifices. While some Peace Corps volunteers are banished to the ends of the earth, forced to live in huts made of elephant dung amidst malaria-infested swamps, I must endure something far worse—opulence. This is my banquet room.
And tell me this, who is going to admire me and my dedication towards serving my fellow man upon learning I’ve been reading back issues of the New Yorker while drinking homemade wine in beneath a chandelier (please see picture below for bearskin rug). Please believe me when I say I have no heat and wash my clothes by hand. I take ice cold showers and suffer the degrading effects of intestinal parasites in a squat toilet. It’s not a total vacation. Sacrifices abound... the champagne is far too sweet for my liking and there is no sushi. Recently I ate “guacamole” made from ground peas and a seasoning packet and thought it was delicious. You people should send me some care packages.

CARE PACKAGES=UNDYING LOVE

2006-11-23T03:16:00.000-08:00

My Dearest friends and family...

I'm sure you all know that I love you all, that I would and will do anything for you. I am always here for you and have done many kind deeds for you in the past. Remember when I may have helped you shuttle your earthly belongings from one crappy apartment to the next. Never forget all I have done for you, and all that I do now for the poor children of Georgia, and their dreams to learn English so they can read People Magazine online. I am truly a humanitarian. A humanitarian who eats a very limited diet and longs for the comforts of home.

BUT YOU CAN HELP....

Care packages are greatly appreciated. Every week I watch as fellow volunteers open packages from home. Sometimes it is cookies or warm socks or new books and movies. "It must be very nice to receive things from home," I think to myself as I shuttle off empty handed from the Peace Corps mail room, crying softly to myself. Volunteer Thai-Lyn's mother loves her. Volunteer Paige Weldon's friends care enough to send BBQ sauce. And volunteer Tom Schreiber has people who want him happily watching the Arrested Development DVD's.

Perhaps this has struck a nerve? Do not be overwhelmed by guilt. Just keep reading...

Packages can be sent to me at:
Ryan Nickum, PCV
C/O Peace Corps Georgia
110b Burdzgla Street,
Tbilisi, 1094
Republic of Georgia

Things I would be eternally grateful for...

FOOD: Any Asian/Mexican/Indian seasonings (Thai curry paste, Indian seasoning, teriyaki sauce, etc), BBQ SAUCE, taco/fajita seasoning packets, nutter butters, instant hummus, hot sauce, CHIPOTLE SAUCE, red rooster chinese chili sauce, COFFEE, starburst, skittles, hot tamales, INDIAN PICKLE, etc. But I would love to receive anything.

BOOKS: Anything you've recently read you think I might enjoy--Travel books related to my region, any history/travel book about Eastern Europe, Greece, Turkey, Armenia, Azerbaijan, etc. Any bit of fiction, especially quirky or funny. Also, any books my students might find interesting, particularly Harry Potter, simple biographies about people who beat the odds and achieved success, Where the Wild Things Are, any Roald Dahl or related books. Basically anything one would find on the Island School book shelves.

DVDS: Anything you're tired of watching, particularly comedies, foreign flicks, animated flicks (for my students of course), Peter Pan, etc.

CD'S: Whatever the kids are listening to. I don't want to lose my coolness over here. My students are already in awe of me and my hip American style. I don't want that to wane (actually I'm the clumsy guy with glasses and chalk on his pants who struggles to understand their most basic questions). But keep me up on the latest music. Send me a mix CD. And I think I might even like opera.

Anyone who answers this call to service (just as I heroically answered Peace Corps call) will be blessed with much good karma and I will buy you a beer when I come home.

Trip to Greece?

2006-11-23T03:03:00.000-08:00

Fellow Travelers...

These four hour days at school are killing me, not to mention consecutive four day weekends. I need a break, a vacation, time to unwind. I envision myself sitting in a cafe overlooking the Aegean, a plate of fried calamari before me, perhaps some ouzo and olives, maybe a gyro. It sounds like heaven.

My plan for Christmas break is to fly to western Turkey and take a bus up to Istanbul for a few days (including New Years) and then head to the Greek islands for 10 days. The prices are supposedly cheap even if the sun isn't always shining. I'm sure it will seem warm to me, as my room has no heat and the snowlevel is falling. Greece will be a nice reprieve.

My primary problem is that finding information on Greece is fairly hard out here in the village. No bookstores, Internet access, etc. And the residents of my village haven't done much island hopping, although a good many have family members living/working in Greece. My host brother lives in Athens. We have never met.

What I'm hoping is that some of you good people have been to Greece and could offer up some advice. Where are the best spots? How can I figure out the ferry schedule? Who has a wealthy friend living in Lesvos who wishes to wine and dine a couple American visitors? Anything of the sort.

I will not be traveling alone, but will be bringing a companion. We long to eat non-Georgian food, look at the sea, read books and drink coffee, maybe take in a sunset and eat some fresh seafood. I would sell my best kidney for a plate of calamari with aoli sauce.

So any help would be great. Hope all of you are doing well.

Dodgeball

2006-11-11T05:12:00.000-08:00

Summer camp: Some other volunteers chose to sing Kumbaya at their summer camps, but we did not. The watermelon eating contest was successful, but the kickball game was not. Sometimes the baserunners would pile up at second, sometimes they went from home to third, and other times they would round second and then suddenly switch to defense and try to catch a fly ball. It was discouraging. However, they took to dodgeball like Americans never have.

Kheltubani Adios

2006-11-11T04:34:00.000-08:00

This is from one of our last days in Kheltubani. We held a supra in honor of a local dog, Chico. We made toasts to brave Chico and expressed our appreciation to our Language Trainer (Bella, bottom left corner))by serving homemade fajitas and virgin mojitos. We rejoiced. We reveled in tastes of home... and the next day we fell ill and spent an inordinate amount of time in our squat toilets. We don't know how the poisoning happened, but we're pretty sure it had something to do with Heidi stirring the salsa with the knife we'd used to cut the meat with. Or it might have been that the cutting board was rinsed off in cold water. But probably it was something much more sinister, because that sickness turned out to be Giardea. And Giargea sucks.

Nicholas, his host brother Giorgi and myself.

Making fajitas with Heidi's host sister Manana. Real is how we keep it. Obviously.

2006-11-11T04:03:00.000-08:00

Every Sunday in Kheltubani (my training village) we had an 11AM supra at Nicholas' host family's house. This started as a meal with many toasts and descended into a wine fueled dance party. Toni Braxton, Jennifer Lopez... all the hits.

This is my host family's storage room, full of wine, preserves and various canned food for winter. Mostly wine though.

My back yard. All vineyard.

Some of the male host family members from my training village.

American Birjha. Me, Jen, Van, Nicholas and Heidi hanging in front of the gate to my old house in Kheltubani.

idon'tknow

2006-11-11T03:26:00.000-08:00

This is a sad picture as nobody in it except me is still here. Brandon (who I have my arm around) was one my best friends here and a really cool guy from Hawaii. He was one of the most upbeat people I've ever known and always raised your spirits when you were growing discouraged. The couple behind us is Joe and Kate who were two great volunteers who are now back in the states. We miss them.

This is a fresco from a church I've forgotten the name of. Most of these were covered up by the soviets, but there are some really unique ones that have been refurbished.

This is my current host family. They are wonderful people: kind, generous, gracious, funny and very laid back.

The first day I stayed with them we were sitting in the courtyard under the pear tree talking by candlelight. At one point, my host father Omari excused himself, and stepped out of the gate casually. A minute later the street lit up with a flash followed by a loud boom and a dog yelping and staggering into the bushes.

Omari returned holding a rifle. The moral to the story is if you're a stray dog you are not to eat Omari's chickens. I immediately text messaged a bunch of other volunteers with this story and soon my phone was beeping with horrified responses.

"Who is that Ryan?" My host mother asked.

I told her and she just laughed and laughed.

"Ryan, tsudi dzagli." Ryan, bad dog.

The next day our dog went into heat and I helped establish a perimeter to keep the horny male dogs out. I spotted one potential mate sneaking in the gate and chased him out, catching him in the ass with a sweet ricochet shot off the gate with an unripe pear. The dog yelped and took off and my host mother cheered me.

"Kai beechy, Ryan. Kai Beechy." Good boy Ryan. Good boy. Even though I'm 30 I get called good boy all the time.

Village Life

2006-11-11T02:17:00.000-08:00

My host father in Kheltubani (training village) standing beside his "antique" automobile. This car is the joke of the house (and village) as it always needs repairs and sounds like a rusty dumpster rolling down a hill. After taking this photo I explained that my friend Sean was curious about Russian cars, then I spent the next 10 minutes explaining that there was no way he wanted to buy this one.

The car consumed much of daily life at my house. Each morning I awoke to metal clanging as Tamazi attempted to fix this and that. Neighbors arrived with cardboard boxes full of loose nuts and spare parts in an attempt to fix it. It took a village, but now it sometimes runs, belches out thick smoke that fills the house and transports the family to their garden to harvest tomatoes and cucumbers. I'm not sure it's doing well now. When I dropped by a few weeks ago they were constructing a donkey cart.

Nicholas tying scraps of fabric to a wishing tree. As volunteers we selflessly just retied the wishes that had fallen off. There is no limit to our giving.

My host mother Lela cooking eggplant sauce for winter canning. She's laughing at the absurdity of taking a photo of someone cooking.

This is my host mother Lela and my host sister's daughter Mariami.

Dimi

2006-09-05T02:37:00.000-07:00

So I'm in a noisy Internet cafe full of noisy boys yelling at their computers while playing Counter Strike or other various other video games. I have a flash drive full of pictures I'd like to share with all of you, but unfortunately it's proven hopeless. That means the 45 minute bus ride where my shirt grew damp from persperation (not my own) was all in vain.

Aside from this small frustration all is well out here. I've moved to my permanent site, a small village called Dimi (rumored to mean smoke) near the city of Kutaisi. It's nestled in a river valley with steep green hills all around and a large forest seperating it from the city. Since school has yet to begin I spend my days exploring the area, hanging out with my friend Jeff (volunteer in neighboring village), swimming in the river and reading books. Not a bad life, even with 100+degree weather.

All the same, I'm anxious to get to work. I'm plotting various ways to provide my school with much needed resources: books, computers, etc. Because my Georgian is so basic it is very difficult to communicate and thus understand the school's needs, although I'm pretty sure they'd agree that basketball hoops would be a welcome addition to the empty backboards.

I'm holding a summer camp next week where I hope to teach them dodgeball.

My host family is great. Someday I'll get pictures on this thing and you can all see them. I hope to get some photos of my house also. It's a pretty brick and stone house that will be soon be covered with plastic siding. I'd like to get the photo before this "upgrade."

Anyhow, hope all is well with all of you.

Kheltubani/Gori

2006-07-23T02:52:00.000-07:00

Yours truly, fellow volunteer Seke, my host sister Mary and her son Nika in front of Stalin's personal traincar.

My host sisters Mary and Keti and our friend Anna.

Stalin Museum--It was closed so I didn't go in.

Random Photos of Georgia

2006-04-17T17:56:00.000-07:00

Sacrifices

2006-04-10T13:21:00.000-07:00

One of the tragedies of accepting my Peace Corps assignment is I won't be able to dedicate much time to Hazard Industries, an Internet start-up I've been developing with the highly regarded James R. Cooley of the Stanwood Cooley's.

We had big dreams of becoming a sort of small scale Enron. Wall Street was to be abuzz as our IPO shot out of the gates like a steroid-fueled sprinter. We were to follow that up with a rapid expansion, features in Fortune, fame, prestige, questionable campaign-contributions and appearances in charity golf tournaments. Eventually, however, we would have been ruined by the creative accounting and lavish expenditures (marble desks and diamond encrusted collars for our Pomeranians). The end would have been nothing but a flurry of document shredding, congressional inquiries, public humiliation and betrayal. Thanks for nothing Jim.

Since the beginning, we have worked diligently to develop a corporate image that reflected the big things to come. In hindsight I now see the toupee as a rather frivolous investment. But the time and capital invested was not a total wash. My brief stint in the business world will help me during my time overseas. Clearly Jim and I have developed a business prototype that, with some tweaking, will bring a bounty of riches to the small village I'm placed in.

Capitalism is on the march.

You Know You've Been In Georgia Too Long If...

2006-04-03T11:36:00.000-07:00

This has been cirulating a Yahoo Group message board on Georgia. It offers some insight into the country and the expat community. Plus, it's kind of funny.

YOU KNOW YOU'VE BEEN IN GEORGIA TOO LONG IF. . .

The two hardcore communist Peace Corps volunteers you met in your first year here are now heading the World Bank and the IMF.

Your father-in-law is secretly jealous of your mother-in-law's moustache.

You feel more bored than annoyed when some drunken idiot holds a gun to your head at a party.

You can navigate five flights of stairs, find the door to your apartment, and fit the key in the lock in complete darkness.

You find nothing romantic in candle lighting.

You bump into a newly arrived foreign businessman in the pub and decide it might as well be you who rips him off.

You’re disposed to sit in a taxicab for 45 minutes at your destination
without budging if the driver is unwilling to give you the proper change.

Your oldest foreign friends stop bothering to pretend that they're not
working for the CIA.

You’re no longer surprised when a building that looks like a Beirut
crackhouse gives way to a sumptuous apartment inside.

You consider amoebic dysentery to be a weight loss strategy.

You walk down the street holding hands with your buddy.

You are not taken aback when a complete stranger at a supra (dinner party w/ ceremonial toasts) kisses you and
professes eternal love.

You appoint someone tamada (toast master) even when dining with foreigners.

You have grown used to the picture quality of pirated DVDs.

You find sit-down toilets uncomfortable.

You aren't aware that one is supposed to pay for software.

A PhD in Nuclear Physics fluent in 7 languages irons your socks for a
pittance.

When you go to the toilet you bring your own toilet paper.

You no longer wonder how someone who earns $400.00 per month can drive a
Mercedes.

You throw your trash out the window of your apartment, car or bus.

You honk your horn at people because they are in your way as you drive down
the sidewalk.

You have figured out that it is actually the Russians who are running this
country.

You are able to jump the queue because the idiot foreigner left 2
centimeters between himself and the person in front of him.

You consider McDonald's a treat.

Georgian fashion starts looking hip.

The word “salad” first brings to mind mayonnaise.

You don't notice your gastrointestinal problems anymore.

You start recognizing the Russian songs on the radio and sing along to them
with the taxi driver.

You drink the brine from empty pickle jars.

You think a bus with 200 people on it is "empty".

You can think of at least fifteen medical conditions that can be cured by
chacha (100+ proof grain alcohol). Sorting out a blocked ear by pouring chacha into it is my personal
favourite).

Your long-standing girlfriend pecks you on the cheek and you think it's one
of those life-defining moments you will never forget.

Back in your home country, you smugly lecture the policeman on how it only
counts as drunk driving if you're actually swigging behind the wheel, before
giving him a dollar anyway because he looks like a nice guy.

You start learning Georgian because you're anxious that God might not
understand your prayers if they're in a foreign language.

You try to bargain over the price of tomatoes while in a grocery store back
home.

There is a brass plaque with your name on it on the bar at Smugglers.

You turn off your car engine at stoplights to save fuel.

The lady in your local corner shop stops asking when you are going to get
married.

Your wardrobe is shimmering with a million hues of black.

Your weight has doubled despite the near-disappearance of several internal
organs.

New Slang

2006-03-22T09:13:00.000-08:00

Georgian language is supposed to be one of the hardest to learn. It is unrelated to any major language group and I'm a little worried about the difficulty. If you don't pick up the language quickly in the first couple weeks of training they send you home.

A Georgian word holds the record from most consecutive consonants without a vowel (8--vprtskvni--I am peeling it).

The first Georgian word I learned is "dundulebi" which is the part of the body where the butt meets the thigh. The term somehow derives from how or where you hang a goat when you're gutting it. So I'm on my way.

Where is Nickum?

This Day in Bald History

Nickum Appears on Podcast

Living in America

Latest from Georgia

Update on Conflict Between Russia and Georgia

10... 9... 8... 7...

More Maka

Maka the Dog

Easter

Children

Cultural Exchange Continues

Paige and I are Getting Married

The Nickums Come to Georgia

NCAA Tourney

Area Churches

Nothing Much of Interest

STUPID JEN

English Language Competition

The Legend of Omari

The Winter of My Discontent

Lasha's Birthday

Plenty of Spare Time

PARIS

Death to Piggy

Celebrate Good Times C'mon... again and again...

PEACE CORPS MUST CHANGE UNFAIR POLICY!

The Romance of Paris...

Warmth and Caring

Thanksgiving

Tilling the Land

SNOW

The Ongoing Saga of Dogs

NOT SO GREAT UNDERWEAR CAPER

A Vintner Is Born

COMIC BOOKS ANYONE?

ART & FRIENDS

LOCAL TRAVEL

The Collapse of the Bald Birja

Personal Growth

Breasts

REJECTION & unrelated pics

THE LAZY DAYS OF SUMMER

Babies and Lost

Land of Milk & Honey

The Other Washington

School's Out 4 Summer

Healing

Drinking and Dancing with My Students

Practical Jokes

Theft and Illness in Good Ol' Georgia

Wedding Season

SOKO: THE SURVIVOR

Total Jim and the Gift of Giving

My Favorite People

Just Another Day in Georgia

English Language Competition

Pushup: The Great Motivator

Possible Transcript of My Motivational Speech as Translated By My Counterpart

CHRISTMAS VACATION PART1

CHRISTMAS VACATION PART2

TOM SCHREIBER

DOGS

Megobrebs, Homies, Amgios, Etc.

Free Time

PERIL

UNBEARABLE SUFFERING

CARE PACKAGES=UNDYING LOVE

Trip to Greece?

Dodgeball

Kheltubani Adios

idon'tknow

Village Life

Dimi

Kheltubani/Gori

Random Photos of Georgia

Sacrifices

You Know You've Been In Georgia Too Long If...

Suggested Reading

New Slang