Been awhile...

A pretty neat looking picture of the steeple of the Martvili Monestary and an early Moon. As my Pops would say, Trippy Man...

So as you’ve noticed, I stopped making excuses for my truant posting a while back. But that’s not going to stop me right now, as it’s been nearly a month between posts and I feel as if I owe you an explanation. There’s several reasons for the lack of posts, which I’ll try to get through as quickly as possible before I can get on to some real observational thoughts.

It’s amazing how quickly things have gone by, considering where I am. The average person would think that being in rural Western Georgia would cause time to move at a painfully slow pace, and although there have been some sluggish periods, I’d say that overall, time has flown by like a BMW-wielding Georgian.

Before I went abroad, my friend who had taught in Korea for a year told me that your feeling towards time shifts like a bell curve. In the beginning, you’re really excited and everything is a wonder. As I was going over some of my earlier posts this past weekend, my friend’s comment certainly proved prescient. Look back on my September posts and you’ll see how I come off as some wide-eyed newcomer who think they have it all down after a few experiences (I cringed at reading over some of my innocent ignorance).

A random castle (you get a lot of those in Georgia) sitting atop the road from Bandza to Senaki.

But then you hit the dog days, and there’s a lull. My trip to Southeast Asia (in the words of Scarlett O’Hara, As God is my witness, I will get to those Vietnam thoughts before I leave this earth. That’s how it went, right?) helped to stave off any feelings of monotony, but as the winter lagged on, there has definitely been some times during which I’ve thought, Good Lord, can this go any faster? The goofy weather (I thought we turned a corner a few weeks ago, but it’s been rainy and cool for the past week [there’s fresh snow fifteen kilometers up the road from me]) and the frequent electricity disruptions (we had another three day wind storm a few weeks back that cut power to my village for five days) haven’t helped.

Number One Threat to Georgia? Bears! This beast was roaming the inside of it's cage in the Tbilisi Zoo (entrance fee of 50 Tetri [30 US cents], making it easily the cheapest Zoo ever).

But even then, I still had things to keep me busy: my Kindle that is jam-packed with classic literature thanks to Project Guttenberg, increased tutoring of the boys, trying to make sure I don’t add winter weight by running on the weekdays (I don’t really look forward to running, while I enjoy it even less in cold weather), big trips on the weekends (went to the Georgia/Croatia Euro’12 Qualifier in Tbilisi that Georgia won on a ’90 goal, immediately after which I was hugging every random Georgian man I could find in my section), looking for a teaching position for the summer (I will be in Turkey) and this upcoming school year (I will not be in Georgia, a topic for another day), and planning more lessons for my classes at the Bandza school (Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, my skiing trip, and the upcoming Easter holiday have given me ample topics).

So now it’s mid-April, I have two months left, and it’s back to the excitement I felt in the beginning. But that excitement isn’t due to my departure, it’s more of an energy producing excitement that reminds me how I must make sure to take advantage of the little time I have left. Although with that excitement comes a sort of wistful feeling, so instead of observing the new, I’m blinded by nostalgia.

A shot of Senaki and the Samegrelo Valley, probably the only completely flat area in Georgia.

So I probably won’t have too many mind-blowing observations during my time left here, although it’s not like I ever did. But I will still do my best to conjure up some magic and be more cognizant of the fact that with each day that passes, I’ll have one less day to expound on this unique and authentic culture.

But there’s been a lot that’s gone over the past two months that I can probably bumble on about. Here’s a few quick thoughts old school style.

Erti – There have been two deaths in relation to my host family in the past six weeks, the first was rather expected, while the other was far more tragic that occurred only ten days after the first. I’ve already talked about the Georgian grieving process, but I never realized the expectations on the immediate family during the forty days that follow a death. TLG should probably mention this during our orientation, because it sure would have helped me, but basically don’t practice the piano, don’t play music at all, don’t expect any meat at the dinner table, and never, ever smile. That last one’s a bit of hyperbole, but I would say the past month has been the only time I’ve felt uncomfortable with my host-family, if only because I was walking on egg shells with zero direction.

This is my little buddy Luka on his 6th birthday, obviously not old enough to cut his own orange, and therefore getting Gogita (his neighbor) to do it for him. Look at the anticipation in that little guy's eyes.

Ori – I finally decided to help out with some farm work. It was the first official day of work a few Saturday’s back. There were some guys I recognized at the breakfast table, and they were passing out shots of tchatcha. Afterwards they went out to work while I went to my room to read and then went on a run (after the tchatcha buzz faded). When I got back from the run, I decided it was time to man up. So I walked over to the vineyard, grabbed a shovel and started churning some farmland. It was a quite a sight for all of the real men there; they stared as if I had just solved the Riemann Hypothesis (if you don't want your head to hurt, do not click on the link). But I don’t think I did much of a good job, since I haven’t been asked back since. Mission accomplished, I guess?

Sami – On Wednesday after dinner, all the men of the household were intently watching the European Figure Skating Championship. I don’t know if it was for the view or the art, but they all seemed mighty impressed with the double and triple axels these young were pulling off (whole lot of De-da’s and Op-pah’s). But the best was when a black skater from France stepped on the ice. Lasha looked at me and instead of dropping the n-word, said, black. These are the type of small success stories I savor.

In honor of the upcoming holiday of Easter, here is a crooked cross (I can't remeber why so many crosses in Georgia look like this, but it's not really crooked as it's supposed to look like that [Cue random Georgian reader to correct my ignorance]).

Bakuriani

A lucky shot of the Didveli Slopes in Bakuriani.

So before I can finish my long awaited final words on Vietnam, thus bringing closure to my Southeast Asia thoughts, I must quickly gush about my weekend in Bakuriani.

I had been planning a ski trip ever since I got back from the winter break. Initially I thought we’d (from the outset, many of my fellow TLGers were quite enthusiastic on joining me, but due to various factors, I could only muster up eleven friends [eight of which were TLG]) go to Gudauri, which is the ski resort about an hour and a half north of Tbilisi on the way to Mount Kazbegi. I decided on Gudauri because I had heard it offered the best skiing in the Caucasus for both difficulty and variety. But after researching the situation further, I made the executive decision of switching our destination to Bakuriani. Again, this was for various reasons, but it was mainly monetary since Gudauri is more expensive in just about every facet.

Bakuriani is a ski town in south central Georgia, located about thirty kilometers east of Borjomi and three hours by marshrutka from Tbilisi. It’s known for its mineral water (my personal favorite in Georgia) and being the home to Nodar Kumaritashvili, the Georgian Olympian who was killed on the luge course in Vancouver last winter. But before I went, that was the extent of my knowledge. The only other information I had heard about the place was that you needed a car to take advantage of the skiing, because there are several different ski slopes in different parts of the town (this is partially true, but the slopes are big enough to keep you occupied for a day, so in theory you could come for a three day weekend and ski a different slope each day).

But Bakuriani also offers more activities for those who don’t want to ski. It’s really like a winter fun park, where you can go snowmobiling, quading, horse back riding (which a few of my friends took advantage of), and ice-skating. Bakuriani also offers ski-town type amenities: bars, clubs, a hookah lounge, movie theater, and upscale ski-resorts. Guduari, on the other hand, is the definition of a ski village where if you’re not skiing, there’s not much else to do.

This is the type of attraction that you will only see in Tbilisi and Bakuriani: a horse-drawn carriage.

So Bakuriani it was, but where to stay? A fellow TLGer forwarded me an email she had received from another teacher who had stayed at a ski school in Bakuriani named IkiSki that also doubles as a guesthouse. It sounded interesting and reasonably priced, although when I say reasonable, I’m comparing it relative to Georgia. I am not comparing it to skiing and mountain accommodation elsewhere in the world, where skiing vacations can run you into the thousands of dollars. IkiSki also had skis on hand for rent and provided transportation to and from the slopes. So I emailed the address on their website and asked about available accommodation on certain dates.

I got an email from a guy named Irakli telling me he wasn’t there this season, but that he had forwarded my email to his mother, Lali, who ran the place and spoke/understood English. Sometimes that qualification is used quite liberally; even in the capital city of Tbilisi there aren’t many people who know competent English, so I had my doubts that Lali of a small ski town in Georgia would be able to communicate with me flawlessly. But my doubts were quickly put to rest as Lali walked me through the details (the guesthouse is 45 Lari a day/night for a dorm style bed and three meals, while they rent equipment in house for 25 Lari a day, all of which includes transportation), and patiently accepted my constantly changing plans (the first and last time I will try to plan anything for fellow TLGers; we change our minds as often as we change underwear).

So it was all set, people from West Georgia would head to Bakuriani Friday morning in order to arrive for a three o’clock meal, while our friends from Tbilisi would be leaving after the workday (damn responsible Tbilisi people making us Mingrelian teachers look bad) and arrive in time for a nine o’clock dinner, which ended up being svadi (Georgian BBQ) cooked in the fireplace… but back to getting there. When we rolled into Bakuriani, Lali and her husband Victor came to transport our bags, and only allowed us to walk the five hundred meters to IkiSki after telling them a taxi wasn’t necessary.

A shot of IkiSki from the road, with a few of my friends hanging on the bottom deck.

From the outside, IkiSki looks exactly like any other ski chalet: log cabin exterior with a stone base and a giant slopping roof. Now, seeing this type of building in, say, Chamonix, France wouldn’t make you think twice, but in Georgia, it stands out. A majority of the developers who planned the hotels in Bakuriani weren’t really worried about achieving an authentic look (and the same goes for most other Georgian tourist destinations I’ve been to, like Mestia and Batumi). The goal is to build quickly with aluminum siding and concrete, slap a fancy English name on the front (we saw one named Hotel Château Palace), and let the money roll in.

So it was nice to see such an exceptional building in which IkiSki was ran. But in Georgia, the outside of a building can be deceiving—just ask some TLG village teachers, where a new coat of paint on the outside of their school is more vital than working chalkboards. Yet after I stepped into the dry room (a small room near the entrance to most houses in consistently snowy climates), I knew IkiSki was legit.

This is the common room. God, do I miss that fireplace already. In the background is the communal eating area.

Any words won’t do this place justice. It is amazing. Magaria. The place is all solid thick timber, gracefully decorated, and defined the adjective homey. At some point or another over the weekend, each of us mentioned how much we would have loved to live there. It’s about as close to the perfect ski chalet as you can get. But it’s more than that; the winding green wooden staircase (that runs all four stories), shared sleeping rooms filled with bunk beds, and the unequaled common area, all of these features give the whole place a clubhouse type of atmosphere and feeling. But how in the world did this immaculate beauty of a lodge end up in a former Soviet Republic? (Side note: I will not hide my displeasure with Georgian architecture, which I primarily blame on the soviet era and it’s utilitarian concentration. I would say that things are getting better, but then I think of the Presidential Palace and have second thoughts).

A shot of Lali and myself on the IkiSki porch. Trust me, she wasn't nearly as scared of me as this picture indicates.

Lali is an older Georgian woman from Bakuriani, opened IkiSki in 1998, and ten years ago built the current building that houses all the instructors, students, and Lali’s family. But Lali is no ordinary Georgian Bebia even though she does have eight grandchildren. She has done heaps of traveling, won the Bakuriani over-fifty ski competition a few years back (her trophy is humbly displayed on the mantle of IkiSki’s magnificent stone fireplace), and has a quick wit with a fantastic sense of humor. Oh, and she speaks perfect English. She reminded me of Serena, the mother of the host-family I stayed with in Italy. Both were petit older ladies with boatloads of energy and constant smiles, while they shared the same relentless intuitive nature.

But probably Lali’s best characteristic—and the most unusual given her nationality—is her attention to detail. She was on top of everything: fitting the skis, figuring the sleeping situation, transportation, meals, and agreeing on exact times for any and every activity. In fact, she was so acute on time schedules that when one of us was late or caused a delay, she would jokingly point out that we had been in Georgia too long and were taking after one of the worst Georgian traits: tardiness.

Lali's husband Victor and one of the ski instructor's Irakli, enjoying the morning sunshine from the top balcony.

Lali’s son Irakli (who I had first emailed) worked as a ski instructor in Vermont while studying in the U.S. and currently lives with his American wife in Cambodia, while her daughter was a Tbilisi model before marrying a Georgian National Rugby player, and her third son lives in England. Lali’s husband Victor is a former Russian physicist from Vladivostok (the Juneau of Russia that sits on the Sea of Japan all the way across Siberia) who quietly understands English although doesn’t use it as much as Lali, is constantly displaying a hospitable smile, and doesn’t mind socializing with the rap-listening and vodka-drinking ski instructors. So needless to say, it’s an unusual Georgian family.

So when Lali built IkiSki, she had her architect friend draw up the plans and used only local material for the construction (the stones for the foundation and the hearth came from a quarry five kilometers up the road). Every inch of IkiSki had at least a little bit of thought put into it. On the first floor is the dry room, equipment room, and then the common area, which is similar to something one might see in an especially cozy European hostel: giant fireplace, comfy sofas and chairs strewn about, a CD-player with surround sound (without a doubt, the best music collection I’ve come across in a Georgian household: The Doors, Janis Joplin, Led Zeppelin, Marvin Gaye, and Nina Simone), a DVD player with projector to show movies, and an excellent coffee table (something I rarely see in Georgia) on which we were constantly playing chess or nardi.

My buddies Joel and Mic getting into some heavy nardi in the common area.

There is also the eating area and kitchen on the first floor, to which we had free reign, but for the most part we tried to stay out of the way of the IkiSki cooks who made all our delicious meals, which were prepared based on our requests (Lali even had them make sats’ebeli [spicy Mingrelian tomato sauce] after I mentioned how much I loved it). The second floor has all the dorm rooms where we slept. It also has a foosball table, which was unfortunately missing an actual foosball (there is a Ping-Pong table in the basement as well, but with only one paddle. As Lali said, “You can’t have nice things with kids around.”). The third floor, where Lali and Victor stay along with the ski instructors, wasn’t off limits to us adult guests, and anytime we wandered up, there was a good chance of being offered coffee, or more likely a shot of vodka or a beer.

IkiSki runs as a ski school during a majority of the ski season. They offer twelve-day camps, in which kids from ages six to fourteen will come, learn to ski, and have fun for about two weeks. Usually they rent out any extra beds if they aren’t to full capacity on the second floor, but luckily for us, they had just finished their season so there was plenty of room and no kids around (we teachers get enough child-time during the work week, so we had no desire to feel like we were at school on our weekend vacation). There are four Georgian ski-instructors who run the everyday skiing, speak better English than some of our co-teachers (Disclaimer: Just kidding TLG!), and are fairly young. They made good company, loved to party (I’m pretty sure they were more or less letting loose after a long season of instructing), and were more than helpful when it came to fitting the equipment.

My friends Tom and Dirk with one of the other ski instructors Dato, who if anything can be said about, loved to party.

Equipment fitting was actually one of the first things we did when we got to IkiSki on Friday. It was too late to go up to the big mountain of Didveli, plus we consisted of four beginner skiers with two girls being first-timers. We thought about walking over to the bunny slopes that were right down the road, although it didn’t make sense to pay the 25 Lari rental fee for the entire day when we would only get in a little more than an hour of skiing. But when Lali could sense our hesitancy, she immediately told us she wouldn’t charge us for Friday, quite a generous offer that convinced us all that despite her unique character, she still had a bit of Georgian in her.

My Georgian friend Nino catching some rays on the IkiSki front porch

So I’m already 2000-words into my IkiSki love affair, but I have to wrap this up soon. All I can say is that if you are ever thinking of going up to Bakuriani, check out IkiSki. I know it might not be ideal when the kids are there, and it is a bit expensive (at least for TLGers making 500 Lari a month), but the accommodation and the company of Lali and Victor are well worth any baushvebo (children) inconvenience. Also, they are in the middle of adding to the main building a completely separate guesthouse with private rooms and bathrooms, which they hope to have done by next season. Other plans include possibly turning the basement into a full-fledged bar with a sauna, while I did hint that the front porch (which has a perfect view of Didveli) had ample room for a hot tub.

The map of Bakuriani near the center of town, you gotta love the Georgian tourism office's persistence about being part of Europe. But not only is Georgia a part of Europe, Europe started here. Take that Greece.

As for the skiing in Bakuriani itself, we came at the worst possible time. The recent rising temperatures had melted a ton of the snow, and the weather on Saturday was terrible: wet and windy (when it’s windy, they close the second lift on Didveli which cuts out any challenging runs or steep descents). But our plans for an early exit on Sunday were dashed when we awoke to a shining sun, no wind, and a slight temperature drop, meaning the snow would have hardened overnight. All of which led my buddy Mic and I to give Didveli another go. It ended up being excellent skiing despite having to stick to the groomed runs. It was still patchy in some spots, but all the other skiers tended to fly down the middle of the run, leaving the outer edges untouched and as close to powder as one can get given the conditions.

And finally, the view at the top of Didveli on a clear day is stunning; on Sunday I could see all across the Southern Caucasus and into Armenia. Needless to say, if I’m in the area next winter, I definitely want to come back when the season is in and the snow is good. It seems like a big enough ski space, while apparently one of the other slopes offers some of the more challenging runs in Georgia.

But I may not have to wait until next winter, because Bakuriani also struck me as an awfully pleasant place to spend a summer weekend. As mentioned before, there are plenty of other activities to keep you occupied, and the hiking has to be challenging and sprawling. In fact, Lali mentioned a 25-kilometer hike to a glacier lake that particularly piqued my interest. So perhaps I’ll go back before the snow falls again. I know that if I do, I’ll be staying at IkiSki.

A shot of Didveli from the road near IkiSki. If you haven't noticed, I figured out you can do some pretty amazing things with iPhoto...

Sweet... Sweet Shuki

Easily on of my favorite pictures I've taken in Georgia

Recently I started rereading Wendell Steavenson’s Stories I Stole, which is a personal account of the two years Steavenson spent living in Georgia from 1999 to 2001. If you go all the way back to the point where I reignited the blog and switched the focus from Pittsburgh Sports to my travels in Georgia, I mention Steavenson’s book as possible reading material for those unfamiliar with Georgia.

I remember reading Stories I Stole the first time and thinking, what am I getting myself into? I was halfway through the book before I even left the States (the second half of the book drifts away from Georgia and focuses more on her personal struggle and relationship with a German photographer), and though I had read other content telling me the country was in much better shape since the Rose Revolution, I was still a little startled at how bleak a picture Steavenson painted in her stories.

This is from my recent hunting experience in Martvili

Some of the aspects of Georgian culture she reflects on have stood the test of a decade and still hold true today, including this very prescient passage regarding the drinking culture of toasting, tamada, and suphras:

It was a kind of aggression. When they did not know you well, they filled your glass and filled it again and carefully watched how you drank it. This was their measure of you; this was done to disarm you… The quantities, however, were still very large and could provoke either love or violence. This was the Georgian way, friend or enemy with nothing in between. History was lost in tradition, drinking a way of remembering and forgetting at the same time. (pg. 10, Stories I Stole)

That was the good stuff that I was looking forward to. The more alarming characteristic was laid out in the next 18-pages in a chapter entitle Shuki. Now, all Georgians and anybody else who has spent significant time in Georgia understand what shuki means—power (actually, literally, it means light, but that's neither here nor there). And I’m not talking about Saakashvili power, I’m talking about the type of power that keeps the lights on, the hot water flowing, and space heater pumping… electricity.

These are the mountains of Samegrelo, quite stunning on a clear day

In Steavenson’s stories, she describes a sort of third-world Tbilisi in which you might get an hour of shuki in the morning and an hour at night. A Tbilisi where only 20% of the residents would pay their power bills, while a majority of those who didn’t would just bribe an official to reset the meter (including Steavenson herself). A Tbilisi where candles gave you light and tchatcha gave you warmth.

But that was ten years ago (the back of my head says, 2001 was ten years ago? Jeebus, am I getting old), so it didn’t surprise me all that much when I got to Georgia and didn’t experience any of the shuki problems Steavenson so excellently described in her writing. Every couple days the power might go out for a few hours, but it was never for all that long and never caused that big of a problem (the main reason for blackouts was weather [rain, snow, wind], although sometimes there was no rhyme or reason to the sudden darkness). When it did hinder a deadline or a teaching priority, at first it was problematic, but like all other inconveniences in Georgia, you just adapt and get used to it—roll with it as my Dad says.

The landmarks of Tbilisi seen at dusk

Now, I live in a village of Samegrelo, so I’m sure that some people have it better than me especially Tbilisi, but also including even those who live in the towns and cities of West Georgia (except for Guria, nobody cares about Guria). Hell, even Martvili, which is ten kilometers farther away from the main power grid, would have shuki while I was reading by candlelight in Bandza. Nevertheless, I think I have it pretty good; some of my fellow TLGers were and are much worse off (like my friends in Guria, where they might go multiple days without shuki despite immaculate weather).

It’s almost a contest between teachers to see who has it the worst. Well, I have to walk a kilometer to use the communal out-house, or I’ve only eaten bread for the past week, or the always pleasant, You don’t even want to know how long it’s been since I showered. But usually it always comes back to shuki, and when it does, it’s always a score of hours or sometimes days, You had power for three hours yesterday? I would kill for that.

The nicest building in Bandza; our Police Station

Well last week, I think the shuki issue tested almost everyone’s patience. There were unbelievably strong windstorms (at times, I found myself running at a standstill during my Friday jog) throughout West Georgia starting last Wednesday, which continued until Sunday morning. Thus, power was cut in and out throughout the region for the past week (they are still getting things together).

This is probably the worst I have had it since I got here, which really isn’t that bad compared to some (as mentioned, Guria has it rough) and definitely nothing compared to how it was ten years ago; but it does make you realize how lucky you are when you do have power. For me, it really doesn’t matter as long as my Kindle is charged up and I have candles, coffee, and matches. But it is problematic in regards to blogging, email correspondence (a vital cog in my existence), and teaching related tasks (worksheets, lesson planning, and TLG required reports).

So when you haven’t had power for a few days, you get a little antsy: I really want to listen to the new Radiohead album; I would give anything just to check my email; Can I not have to tutor Rezi and Luka under candlelight? So as I sit around and realize I’ve spent the past six hours reading The Odyssey, I might get a little down on myself and the situation. But then! Something flickers, the light on my electronic regulator turns green, and the magic of shuki lifts my spirits like a long awaited text message from a deep crush.

The road from Bandza to Martvili; avoid the cows...

People love to use the phrase you never appreciate what you’ve got until it’s no longer there. Usually this is in reference to a relationship or a recent breakup, but it can easily fit for how we in Georgia think about that sweet, sweet shuki. This afternoon, after I got home from school, there was again no power; so I ate, read a little, and then decided to go on a run, during which I conjured up some thoughts for this very post. But when I got back to the farm, I came to the realization that those thoughts would have to be put on the backburner as my laptop was out of juice and there was most likely ara shuki (no power). But when I opened the door to my room and saw that all-important green light glowing on my e-protector, I almost did a Tiger Woods fist-pump. And now I’m writing this all before the fortune of shuki turns it’s back against me and all is dark again.

There was one line that came from one of Steavenson’s Georgian friends named Kakha that really encapsulated what shuki means to anybody who has lived in Georgia, “In England, you have electricity. But you do not have the happiness that comes when the electricity comes!”

My host-father Lasha loves to curse the President’s name when the power is out. When he sees me, he looks at me incredulously, points at a nearby lighting fixture, and utters, “Oh… ah… Saakashvili… stupid.” (Like all other Georgians, Lasha might not know the English word for smart, but he definitely know the English for sureli [stupid]). I just laugh rather than try to argue with him on how ridiculous it is to blame the President for a power-outage. But my favorite Gabunia shuki tradition comes from Luka. Whenever we are sitting in the small house trying to stay warm while reading under shared candlelight, and the power abruptly comes back on, Luka will clasp his hands together, look to the lights hanging from the ceiling, and say in English, Thank you, Misha! Gets me every time.

I guess on the Gabunia farm, Misha giveth shuki and Misha taketh away.

Beautiful nature and harsh reality, staples of rural Georgia

Thailand Positives... Finally

Oh, Firenze, how I miss you...

I remember coming back from Italy in August with a mostly negative outlook on the people of Italy. But as time fades, I look back fondly on some of the Italian people I was lucky enough to know (particularly the family I lived with for my first 5 weeks and a younger couple who ran a night café a block off of the Duomo [it’s been so long I forget their names]), and also start coming up with reasons for why I was so down on the culture in the first place.

One of my favorite places to drink in Firenze, on the dam in the middle of the Arno

When I got back to the States, to anybody who asked How was Italy, I would immediately point out how self absorbed and unwelcoming I found the people. But it wasn’t really fair for me to generalize all of the Italians in that way; I really should have been more specific. Since I spent almost all of my summer in Firenze, any judgment I made on Italy was shaped primarily from my experiences with Florentines, not all Italians (hell, I didn’t even make it to the East Coast or south of Rome). So to be clear, I found Florentines to be self-absorbed and unwelcoming.

But even then, can I really blame them for acting that way? For six months of the year, Americans infest Firenze like the seven plagues. And if it isn’t the older retirees who won’t spend money outside of their all inclusive tours while losing all sense of patience for anybody that doesn’t understand English, then it’s the university students who get drunk in their public squares and pee on their monuments. So, understandably, it breads a certain dislike.

This is a famous sit from one of the bridges in Firenze; couples would lock a lock to the bars as a symbol of their everlasting love.

In the end, I found Firenze to be split into two types; 1). The tourist hawkers in the center of town who were overly friendly but only because they could smell the newly minted Euros in your billfold. 2). Everyone else, who wasn’t concerned with tourism and only wanted to be left alone. Once they could tell you were foreign, they just didn’t care for you (and they certainly didn’t want to hear you butcher their language while trying get to know them). While I was living there, it was certainly off-putting and (more importantly) frustrating; while traveling or living abroad, I like meeting new people—especially locals. But in retrospect it makes total sense. I’m definitely willing to give Italy another chance, but definitely not in a big tourist trap type city such as Firenze (although I really enjoyed traveling through the other parts of Tuscany).

There were other aspects I didn’t appreciate about Firenze culture that I suspected could more accurately be placed in a general Italian category: the creepiness of the men, their inability to walk like civilized human beings on the sidewalks (how hard is it not to walk four abreast, or avoid walking straight into someone going the opposite way), the length of their phone conversations when sitting next to you in public places or on public transportation, and the creepiness of the men (seriously, very creepy).

The replica David at the Piazza de Michelangelo in Firenze

But the one thing that can consistently leave a bitter taste in your mouth is a final impression. For me, it was on my flight home from Rome to Detroit, which reminded of the utter indifference Italian people had towards parenting—mainly the way children acted in public spaces and the lack of concern or discipline they showed towards it. There were kids running up and down the aisle-ways the entire flight (I’m not kidding when I say the entire flight; all eight hours), who not only continually bumped into unsuspecting passengers (often waking them up [this happened to me twice]), but amplified their annoying behavior by screeching and yelling non-stop. One of the worst flying experiences I ever had to go through.

The Duomo; or as the tourists call it, 'the domo'

Now that might not sound like a reasonable explanation for why I held such a lasting grudge. And you’re right. It’s not. For the most part, everything I wrote above is fairly irrational. I had an amazing time in Italy, met some fantastic people (foreigners, ex-pats, and Italians alike) who remain friends to this day, got to take advantage of numerous incredible experiences (biking through Tuscany and attending a Fioretina FC match), and I know I’m a much better person for the experience.

In good time, if not already, I’ll look back on Thailand with the same fondness. The similarities are eerie enough: the dishonesty I felt, the impersonal encounters, and the longing to meet real locals (or more accurately, finding myself only visiting places filled with foreigners). Plus the all-important negative lasting impression (if you don't recall from a previous post, our taxi driver tried to charge us three times the normal rate for our ride to the Bangkok airport). But I’ll get over it; in fact I already can’t wait to go back for another crack.

It was raining one day at the beach, so I grabbed my book and enjoyed a refreshing drink

All I have to do to forget my negative memories of Thailand is flip through my pictures. A quick tour though iPhoto has me reminiscing about the amazing people I met and places I saw. First, the people.

On Koh Lanta I met the stangest diversity of people, mainly through the daily beach-volleyball game that started at around 4:30 p.m. everyday. It was a motley group of people that at any time could include Swedes, Fins, Thai (two lady-boys who could have beaten Ice Man and Maverick), Germans (every one of them spoke excellent English), Aussies, Swiss, Italian (this guy named William who spent every winter in Koh Lanta, was a bit of an asshole in only the way an Italian can be , and loved to utter bravo after every good point), and then a lone American (me).

The damn Canadians

There was also a Canadian couple from Vancouver who were spending the winter in Southern Thailand; the girl (Sui) was running her fashion company from her blackberry, while the guy (Chris) was picking up spare jobs leading diving trips to small islands. Visiting them while I happened to cross paths was Chris’ Mother (Paulette) who adored her son beyond belief, had a wicked smoker’s voice, and never had a problem telling you what was on her mind.

I also met a gay English couple (Ian and Oliver) who were writing off the vacation to a business expense as they were “investigating tailors and manufacturers in the market for production of some of their lower end product.” They ran an upscale clothier that specialized in coming to the client for fittings, because, as Oliver put it, “If you asked our clients to go shopping, they wouldn’t even know what you were talking about.”

Then there was a 15-year old Norwegian kid (visiting his father who had a house in Thailand) also named Oliver who spoke perfect English, tried to teach me some Thai (unsuccessfully), was amazed when I told him I didn’t have a PS3 or Xbox360 (he had both that he had paid for from his earnings as a bus boy in Norway [when I was fifteen, I was taking out the garbage once a week for beer money]), and, for a teenager, could handle his Bicardi Breezers like a seasoned pro.

Then there was my Austrian buddy Armin, who I met while traveling from Railay Beach to Koh Phangang. He saw that we shared a destination (in Thailand, the travel companies brand you like cattle with a sticker bearing your end point) and struck up a conversation. Armin ran his own electrician company, had traveled through Mexico and even spent some time in Cuba, spoke fluent English (his favorite phrase to use in exasperation, come onnnnnn) and was a born conversationalist like myself (the content might not always be there, but the spirit is).

My Austrian buddy Armin, carefully reading his Southern Thailand guide.

Not all of my encounters were so satisfying, like the group of South African girls I had drinks with in Railay. I never thought that the white South African accent sounded so similar to Cher from Clueless. I ended up wandering off after one of them used the word colored when referring to a native. There were also the roving bands of Australian guys who were there for the obvious reasons and didn’t give a rat’s ass how obnoxious they were. You could spot these guys a mile away; Chang or Tiger Beer singlet, Quicksilver board shorts (buy Aussie!), flip-flops (or thongs as they call them), and sunnies (sunglasses) covering their eyes as they scan the bar for the cheapest looking prostitute. Okay, that may be a little harsh; I find Australians to be extremely entertaining, it’s just that South East Asia is like their Cozumel.

But even the few annoying foreigners I ran into couldn’t ruin all the incredible friendships I made (and this even isn’t mentioning all the equally amazing people I met in Malaysia). There were the two lovely Irish girls I intruded on at my hostel in Bangkok; they had started traveling in India and were making their way to Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia before heading down the Malay Peninsula and ending up in Sydney where they expected to find jobs. There was also the trio of girls from Quebec City who just had that French-Canadian intrigue about them (beautiful, skinny, smoked cigarettes), but instead of being apathetic and disgusted that I was American, these girls were actually cool. I briefly considered following them to Koh Tao, but decided that might be too much.

All in all, I met a ton of cool people. But as you can tell, most of them were foreigners. And from my previous posts, you can probably guess that I won’t have anything positive to say about many Thai people. It is tough, because the only Thai people I encountered were serving me a beer rather than sharing one with me. Of the three places I spent significant time (Koh Lanta, Railay, and Koh Phangang), I met zero Thai tourists or vacationers. With good reason though; it was the absolute peak season and there’s a reason these places are so popular with foreigners.

I’ll make an apt comparison for my American readers. There’s a reason South Carolinians don’t vacation in Hilton Head, because it’s filled with people from Ohio (South Carolinians most hated adversary), it’s more expensive (meaning you get less value for your money), and there are better beaches and golf courses all along the South Carolina coast (Fripp, Kiawah, Edisto, Folley, IOP, Pawley's, and my personal favorite Sullivan’s Island).

God, do I miss that food.

Thai people aren’t going to the spots I went to for the same exact reason; in their eyes it’s a rip off and they know of better places to go anyways. And as a yuppie-white person, it’s my ever lasting dream to find out where those places are so I can one day say, Oh, you went to Koh Samui, I heard that’s… nice. But next time you’re in Thailand, you should check out Koh (insert obscure island here). I heard about it from a Thai friend (name-dropping of an indigenous friend is always a plus) and it was paradise on earth. I was the only foreigner there (this is the killer).

So all of my encounters were made from the type of economical encounters that don’t usually precede friendship. But I’d be remiss in not mentioning Jip, the proprietor of the bungalows I stayed in on Koh Lanta (Blue Moon Bungalows on Long Beach). I was recommended the place from two English girls I had met in Kuala Lumpur, and they actually told me to ask for Jip. Amazing guy and super laid back: never wore a shirt or shoes, never worried about bills (I would often forget to pay for a coke or pad-thai only for him to casually ask me if he remembered correctly the next time I sat down to eat), and helped me out with anything and everything (where to go, what to eat, and how to get to my next destination). I’m also pretty sure he was supposed to charge me for wi-fi and just never did.

Jip and the chef at Blue Moon Bungalows in Koh Lanta (I can't believe Jip was wearing a shirt here)

Then there was the restaurant that was right next to my room (they didn’t have a bungalow for me, but set me up in a room with a fan, giant bed, and no bugs [a rarity for beach-accommodation in Thailand] for a cool $10 a night). I tried to spread the word, but it really was some of the best food I have ever tasted (easily the best pad-thai I ever had). The chef, who was the only other employee there, would let me watch him make the food; everything was fresh, it was all absurdly cheap (no more than $4 for a meal) and he knew exactly how spicy I liked it (most of the food served in Thailand is left for you to spice it yourself, and I tended to go overboard). I’ll just let the pictures do it justice.

There were certainly other aspects of Thai culture I really enjoyed: the buses (cleanest and nicest buses I have ever been on; they had forty-inch flat screens showing movies), the food (Lord, do I miss the food), the beer (Chang is cheap, tasty, and has over 6% alcohol content), the football (they got any and every football match; for example, when I was waiting for my night ferry to Koh Phangang at a hawker center, they were showing the Everton/Scunthrope FA Cup match. I don’t even know if they were showing that in England), and of course the pure beauty (despite there being a ton of trash covering the beach that I stayed on in Koh Phangang, I was still in awe of some of the beaches and islands I got to experience [as I hope the pictures have conveyed to you]).

I should probably have split this post in half, and spent more time talking about the characteristics I mentioned in the paragraph above, but I need to get to my post on Vietnam before I completely forget the place (not to mention the backlog of thoughts I’m accumulating on Georgia since my return). So I think this is a good place to leave Thailand. On a high note. I miss you already.

Oh, Thailand, how I miss you...

Return to Bandza, Student Confessions, & Ravenous Wolfs

A statue off the main highway in the middle of Georgia

So it’s been a busy few weeks since I got back to Bandza. I’ve been slowly adapting to the weather (quite different than tropical Southeast Asia; although not nearly as frigid as I expected), the living situation (everyone huddles into the small house [also known as the cooking house] from where the only heat on the property is emanating), and just getting back into the swing of things. I’ve also been spending most of my free time traveling and catching up with friends in other parts of Georgia. And finally, one of my Christmas gifts from my mother was her old Kindle, which (if you can recall) is something I sorely needed and, now that I have one, keeps me more than occupied.

One of the more problematic issues during my short return has been internet access. As the entire family migrated to the small house, so did the computer. Add to that the fact that it’s winter, there’s literally nothing to do around the property, and Lasha discovered the wonders of Tetris; my computer access is few and far between.

But this isn’t an excuse, because, as always, I’m typing these pointless thoughts on my laptop only to transfer them later. I’m only saying that the time between when I finish a post to actual publication may be even more prolonged than is custom (I had the second part of my Thailand thoughts waiting for almost a week). So if you don’t see a post in over a week, no need to worry, I’ve got plenty on the way.

Anyway, it’s been an interesting few weeks of re-acclimation to Georgian village life. When I first stumbled back onto the Gabunia farm, I walked into the small house only to find a basic makeshift infirmary for the family. Lasha and Luka were both infected with some sort of virus that resembled Chickenpox or the Measles, which was apparently sweeping the Martvili district (or so they told me; I have still yet to hear anyone else mention this).

Something I haven’t brought up before is Georgian’s affinity for iodine. Behind Nabeglavi and tchatcha on Georgians’ list of favorite medical remedies is iodine. They put it on anything and everything (see the Chris Rock joke about Robotussin [or as he calls it, ‘Tussin]). When my friend Ali fell in a manhole (so she says, I’m still convinced it was a pothole), she resembled Smurfette for a week since her host-family insisted on dousing her in iodine.

But back to the family mash unit; Babua Rezo was also laid up with some sort of bulging disk coming from his upper groin, which he—much to my delight—showed me. Reziko was still in Tbilisi waiting on Bebia Lela to return from her European travels, so the only healthy family member present was Ira. But more that the haggard physical appearance was the household mood—outward misery. After making my grand reentrance, no one could muster a slight smile or even fake enthusiasm. Not that I need some sort of glorious welcome upon return, but it was as if I were returning from just another day at school, and not a month of travel.

To make things worse, I made a frantic retreat to Bandza so that I’d be there for the first day of classes (before I left, I was told we restarted on Thursday, January 20^th by all of my colleagues), but when I showed up to class the next morning (getting only a few intermittent hours of sleep in my near freezing room, which is unfortunately in the giant unheated house [I immediately went out and bought a space heater, only to find out that I couldn’t use it because it sucked up to much electricity; probably should have asked before I spent the 50 Lari on it. Who needs a space heater? Hardly been used]), there was no one there but the janitor, who told me that class started on Monday.

So it was definitely a bit of a sober homecoming. While sitting in Bandza over the next few days waiting for school to start or my friends to return, I was momentarily second-guessing why I returned in the first place, or at least why I didn’t ask to be moved to Tbilisi (as many of my fellow TLGers mandated in order to return for the second semester). But those thoughts were reactionary, fleeting, and above all foolish.

Now that my friends are back (sans my buddy Ian who is living it up in Krakow, Poland amidst tall blonds who don’t have the hereditary uni-brow curse), school starting up again (a busy man has less time to think about what to bitch about), Reziko and Lela returning (which, in addition to Luka and Lasha’s improved health, has brought more warmth and energy to the farm, if not a bit of chaos [what do you expect when you cram seven people into a 400 square-foot room]), and most importantly, I’ve had numerous encounters and experiences within the few days I’ve been back that has reminded me why I love this place. Here’s a small taste:

Erti – When I asked my students what they did for New Years, a vast majority of them (primarily boys from age twelve to eighteen) told me, “I drink much wine.” This confession basically told me three things: 1.) I’m one hell of a role model; 2). I need to work on the past simple use of irregular verbs; and 3). Georgia rocks.

Ori – But it gets better. In my once weekly English club (optional after school meeting, in which I try to prepare something a bit more interesting than grammar points and vocabulary), I planned a lesson around Auld Lang Syne (less formerly known as the song played right after the clock strikes midnight on New Years Eve), which included them singing the chorus and then creating their own New Years’ Resolution. Some of my more admirable students pleased me by pledging to “become fluent in English.” But I was knocked down a few pegs when one of my year XI students showed me his promise to “stop smoking hemp.” At least his grammar was correct.

Sami – And to top it off, while typing this, my family was watching the news and one of the lead stories was about a wolf in Zastephoni who has ravished a few farms and killed an unprecedented seven sheep. I have a feeling that as we sit, there’s a scene going on right now in Central Georgia that is similar to the men of Amity gearing up for the shark hunt in Jaws. On a related note, there was a two-headed cow born in an adjacent village.

I can’t make this stuff up.

Thailand: The Bad (Part II: Everything Else Edition)

Little do you know that despite this beautiful and peaceful picture of a Thai beach, I'm about to spend 1300 words bitching about Thailand. Enjoy.

So this will probably be a short post, as I flushed out most of my negative vibes in the last entry. But I still have some complaints, mostly due to one incident in particular. I feel like Frank Costanza on Festivus, I got a lotta problems with you people… But I promise, after this I do have some good things to say about the beautiful country of Thailand.

Railei (one of many spellings) was the most scenic beach I visited, while also being the most expensive, which directly coincided with it being ripe for a rip-off

Erti - Thailand had some of the nicest buses I’ve ever been on (a topic I’ll visit in the next post), but the way the companies run the buses and their routes had scamola written all over it. If you’ve ever visited Thailand, you’re probably aware of the term Thai Time. Even if you’ve never been there, you can probably tell what it means. Nothing is on time in Thailand; something is always broke, or someone quit. So often times you’re stuck at a pit stop waiting for another bus/driver/spare part to arrive.

But the way tourist transit works in Thailand is you buy a package to get from one spot to the next, and that package may include a ferry, bus, long boat, and/or taxi ride. The catch is when they transfer you from one mode of transportation to the next. The transfer is always at some roadside shack in the middle of nowhere, with the only thing available being bland sandwiches, maybe some Thai noodles, water, and beer. And all of it is twice as expensive as it would be elsewhere. It’s a giant scam.

Red Ants; scavengers...

But what are you going to do? They probably won’t order you a taxi even if you asked for one (and if they did, it would probably be twice as expensive as a normal cab), sometimes you are stuck there for upwards of three hours, and when you’re staring at a thirteen hour bus ride to Bangkok, sometimes all you want to do is get drunk. It’s exploitation at it’s best, but they know they can get away with it, so what the hell?

Ori - Everybody told me that Thailand is much cheaper and less clinical that Malaysia, but I didn’t find it that way at all. To be fair, I was in Thailand during the absolute peak tourist season, and the only places I visited in Thailand were popular and crowded destinations. Either way, the only thing that was cheaper in Thailand was the alcohol, which is kind of important for a traveler like me, but I thought the food and stay would be a lot less, and they were not. Also, shopping was not more affordable either (Vietnam is where it’s at per Southeast Asia shopping).

Saw this bar at Tonsai Beach near Railei, and it's a subtle shout out to my Great Uncle Howdy's Bar in Old San Juan called the One World Bar (Maybe? I forgot the name of it, so family, please correct me in the comments). Funny thing about Howdy is he ran this bar in Puerto Rico for decades yet the only Spanish he ever learned was Hola.

I was talking to a friend about my trip, and she said she met a German woman in Costa Rica a few years back, and all she talked about was how she hated traveling Americans (obviously, this woman lacked a modicum of tact as she was knowingly telling this to an American traveler) because Europeans had been backpacking through Thailand for years, negotiating every price, and enjoying the low rates they could negotiate down. Then the Americans showed up and ruined everything. Instead of playing the game and haggling, they took the first price given. Eventually, this ruined the economy for all the Europeans looking for a cheap vacation.

You would think it would be love at first sight.

I’m sure there is some truth to this theory. I hate haggling (as you could have noticed from my last post), but at the same time, I ran into exactly zero Americans while I was in Thailand, yet was surrounded by Europeans. So maybe we ran up the prices and bolted, while Europeans are still nostalgic enough to continue traveling to Thailand despite their bitching. I’m also not really sure that a majority of American travelers share my distaste for haggling, but I do know the Europeans I saw at shops and markets loved the whole give and take. Actually, it was kind of disgusting to see European after European taking pleasure in talking a night market vendor down an extra fifty cents on a Chang Beer singlet (the most popular tourist souvenir for Australian, U.K., and Irish visitors).

This was Walking Street on Railei, not nearly as exciting as the whore-lined Walking Street in Patong (or so I heard), but pleasant nonetheless.

Sami - You’re not a tourist in Thailand until you’ve crashed a motorbike, which I did in Koh Pangang. I wanted to explore the island from where I was (a beach on the North shore of the island). Unfortunately the island is extremely hilly, and the roads that cut through the mainland are terrible: narrow, muddy, and filled with potholes. But I made it the entire day criss-crossing the island without so much as a slight slip. Unfortunately, when I set out that evening to do a favor for a friend (long story short, I had to find a Sea Gypsy selling awesome jewelry at Hadd Rin, home to the famous Full Moon Parties and on the complete opposite side of the island. The biggest catch: the guy only came out at night), I made it almost the whole way to where the road gets better, hit a foot-deep pothole going about 30 km/hr, and ate shit.

This is not the motor bike I crashed

I only had a few scratches on my palms, knee, and elbow, but there were a few nicks on the right side of the bike. Nothing monumental, easily fixable, but I knew I would have to pay some sort of restitution. So when I returned the bike the next morning, I didn’t even try to hide the fact that I’d crashed (the bandage wrapped around my right elbow would have given me away anyway). Immediately (without even asking about what happened or if I was okay) they pulled out a sheet with a list or replacement parts and costs. As two guys were going over the entire bike and punching numbers into a calculator, I started to get a little apprehensive. Then when they showed me the calculator reading 8300 Baht (Approx. $275), I immediately said, ‘No way.’

This was a French guy me and my buddy Armin met on the night-ferry to Koh Pangang. Despite the fact that we banded together to split a cab fare (yes, that truck is an island cab), it didn't matter because it was still per person.

There were maybe ten scratches on the entire bike, which all could have been buffed out and fixed for a matter of dollars, but they insisted that they had to order brand new body parts. I eventually talked them down to 6100 Baht, still an outrageous sum in my eyes, but I had a ferry to catch and they had my passport, so I was past the point of caring. Now I understand that I signed a contract and I have to honor my signature, but I knew this company would not buy any new parts, and that they are relying on tourists like myself trying to navigate these terrible roads and in doing so, scratch up the bike after which they can charge a ridiculous amount of money. It had scam written all over it.

Tonsai beach was much cheaper than neighboring Railei, but also much crunchier. My hair started dreading itself as I was walking over there.

Did they make me crash the bike? Of course not, but the completely impersonal transaction that ensued when I returned the bike and the matter in which they came up with the price (like it was all part of the whole deal; a closing cost per se)… the whole thing rubbed me as dishonest and wrong. There’s no doubt about it, I’m the dumb tourist for falling off the bike, but the entire ordeal reminded me of the completely cold and impersonal way in which I found myself continually treated in any sort of business transaction.

Again, I don't have many shots of being ripped off in Thailand, so here's a nice shot of a few Thai flags ripping in the wind off the back end of one of my many ferry rides.

Okay, hopefully these past two posts will act as some sort of catharsis and provide closure for my Thai angst. I’m actually looking forward to typing up my positive thoughts on the country, including some good words on the many Europeans I met. Despite my scathing words above, I don’t hate Europeans. I just don’t like Europeans who have a natural distaste towards Americans based on half-baked theories (we have it tough enough when we travel). Anyway, there are some aspects I really cherished about Thailand, and I’m looking forward to airing them. End on a good note, yeah?