Havana Club Georgia and my Chirstmas Saviors

I am done apologizing for not keeping up with my blog posts. I turned fifty, so I believe I am pretty much done apologizing for anything unless I light you on fire. It has been very busy here in Tbilisi, not that anyone will notice, but between firing off a response to a request for a full manuscript submission and exclusive time to read it in full we have been doing the holiday thing in addition to the regular day to day. So I haven’t had much time to think really. I found I was being pulled back into the regular Canadian lifestyle of work, responsibility, and more work. This is Georgia! The focus is on Family, friends, and enjoying life. So why the hell was I falling back into this routine, complete with those nagging questions such as; “Is this story plot really tight enough?” “Did I go too far with the Countess (in Redemption’s Bullet)? Did I get too drunk on my birthday? What is with the holidays that makes people so crazy? Georgia has more holidays it has two calendars and so when you add the Canadian Christmas the madness of the season became a little overwhelming. So I did what I normally do when surrounded by pissed off elephants, growling leopards, or quiet smiling tattooed Russians. I whispered to myself; “Relax, take it easy ain’t nothing killed you yet.” This usually cues up the mental recording of Monty Python’s song Always Look at the Bright Side of Life and cures everything. Not this time!

Like only a whisper spoken in the dark can it caught in the chaos of “I wonders” and threatened to drag me with it. That only leads one to the bathroom mirror at two am with questions and concerns that the person reflected can’t answer. The situation was dire, threatening, a Fear Of The Dark Iron Maiden accompanied Joyce meets Hunter S. Thompson merging. I needed a cigar!

This thought brought to me by the labored spray of sweat as my last angel struggled in an unrecoverable flat-spin. Crashing on my shoulder back first, I couldn’t help but think “Bet she misses the good one now.” Instead,  I said; “Perhaps, I’ll have two.”  Cue AC/DC …No stop signs, speeds limits nobody gonna slow us down….

I jumped into a cab and sped off into the sunlit cool of this beautiful city that has been home for four months. While this may sound easy, enough, let me add a few disturbing facts. Taxi drivers are nice and helpful, saint-like sometimes, but I can’t speak Georgian, they can’t speak English, and we both speak Russian like seven-year-olds. Just to make it interesting Georgia has a very odd pattern to it’s streets and the cabs from one area have a very limited knowledge of other areas. I was going to Vake the richer area of Tbilisi from the working class area. The exhausted angel sleeping it off in my pocket wasn’t going to be any help.

We made it through the holiday traffic and managed to discover Davidoff Cigars. Mecca, in this case, was a small little shop with English enough staff. The section of cigars was splendid and with prices as close to Cuba as I’ve seen. They were very helpful and bent over backward to make my stay enjoyable. I enjoyed a small Robusto and reality returned slowly. Life is to be enjoyed. One should not be aware of their angels, just the blessings each day brings. I inhaled the aged Cuban leaf deep into my lungs and with each exhale felt a little more normal.

The other Cigar smoker in the lounge was Shawn. Shawn is not his real name. It is the name he kindly allows us English tongue handicapped people to use. This is a little example of Georgian hospitality. We enjoyed some small talk as Cigar lovers and became fast friends. He told me that he belonged to the Georgia Whiskey Club and that they were having a Bourbon tasting on Sunday if I wanted to come. I jumped at the idea.

Sunday came, and I met with an awesome, friendly group of locals from all walks of life. The evening's host was Giga Khatiashvilli, and he greeted me like an old friend when I walked into the restaurant-bar 11/11 located at 11 Galaktion, near Liberty Square. He wasn’t just a gracious host, but stepped up to be my interpreter for the evening as well. We sampled two offerings from Jack Daniels, and two more from Bulleit. The opinions of the evening were as varied as the palates they graced. I preferred the Bulleit offering distilled in Lawrenceburg Indiana. It contained  95 percent Rye and was a little more “layered.”

The tables were graced with various whiskey themed offerings as well. Chicken skewers finished in a Jack Daniels sauce and baked apples finished in the same manner with walnuts. Various finger food delicacies also found their way onto our table, and I had a good time trying to explain the haute culinary couture of a hush-puppy. It came down to everyone loves mashed potatoes, and deep frying makes everything better. The evening was tied in a bow with coffee, cigars, and a wonderful pumpkin pie.

During the evening, Giga introduced me to his friends and Shawn managed to get free of work to attend as well. I was introduced to Dimitri Gakhov and told he was Tbilisi’s resident expert on cigars. Turned out he is and it also turns out he is a super nice guy as well. Not at all like a stuffy expert! We shared the evening, and I forgot how much I was missing home and my traditional Christmas. While it might sound maudlin, but I wasn’t in the least bit drunk and the room truly was filled with the spirit of Christmas. People of all walks of life and income were enjoying a common love and sharing.

Dimitri invited me out to the Havana Club Tbilisi, as he was expecting the new 2015 Bolivars to arrive and I decided to take him up on his offer. I met him at the Havana Club and was immediately impressed at the design and offerings of this oasis. It is an inviting and yet elegant place, striking a perfect match rarely seen in cigar lounges. He greeted me in a rich dark suit, and I was formally attired in Puma T and antiqued Guess jeans. It was fine, and we both fit the decor. The humidor at the Havana Club is impressive, and I don’t say that with an “in Georgia” qualifier. Novice to the jaded smoker will find something to tempt and tantalize including rare offerings and aged beauties. The selection of spirits is as remarkable, and the staff are attentive and professional.

Dimitri and I talked about the Club and his visions for the future and enjoyed a couple of hours between tasks that demanded his attention. One of these was the delivery of the 2015’s and watching him open the boxes once again reminded me of Christmas. It is rare to see a man doing his job that is not a job but a passion and love. If you are within a thousand kilometers of this place, it needs to be on your cigar bucket list. If you are a true connoisseur and love travel, then this should be a destination stop. Georgia has incredible wine and not just the sweet stuff that gets exported to the Americas, but world class incredible vintage sips. I also heard that one of the most famous wine areas in a country known for wine is going to do a Port offering. Hey, I know a guy, and I feel better now!

Georgia is rich in history and culture, and while you can find that elsewhere you can not find hospitality like this anyplace. Add to this an easy visa process and incredibly gentle sin tax and you will not find a better place to smoke and drink while you check out a little history.

 

Musings & just a little venting in Tbilisi

The Surrey International Writers Conference is currently going on and I find myself sorely in need of some positive energy. The kind Robert Dugoni usually brings in bunches. Getting and reading rejection letters are part of every writer’s path. It is part of the business and the trade. This fact doesn’t make it any easier. Being a citizen of the world and away from one’s regular support group compounds the issue. Well, at least Vodka is inexpensive and good in Tbilisi. Relax, my over sensitive readers, it isn’t that bad. But at times it feels that way and at moments like those I reflect on the stories Bob told a few years ago, and will most likely say again to you attending this year. Fill up on those as they will pay as many dividends as any Masters Class. Be positive with one another, and support each other, as we are all the same regardless of the stories we tell. I know it can be difficult but endure.

I recall listening to a writer attendee talk about his Neo-gothic steampunk vampire detective novel. It was set in the last century, but the dialogue was in an abbreviated text form of language. I listened and while most certainly not my genre, interest, or understanding I nodded and was supportive. When someone interjected negatively about the language form, I responded with “It worked for A Clockwork Orange.”

We storytellers (props Rick M) face a very uphill fight. The industry is changing and the audience seems to still be shrinking. Time, our most precious commodity, is fleeting and making the time to read is difficult. I love reading and I can’t get into fiction while I am writing. I reward myself with two weeks of reading time when I finish my first draft. Letting the project sit I let myself enjoy some fiction. Traveling the world and enjoying real books means when I finally got to my copy of The Border it looked like it had been through a war. I enjoyed it immensely and was reminded of the magic of reading once again. Good storytellers can perform this magical feat. It also inspired me to pick up my own MSS and run a critical eye over it again. I re-read sections of Writing 21st Century Fiction by Donald Maass paying close attention to some tension angles and twists. It inspired me to push the envelope of the genre and write a new first chapter. Risky to be sure, but I believe it works better and adds a quirk and a twist reader’s will love or hate. Either way it will generate strong emotions. Currently, it seems to be hated. But lets put this into perspective Agents aren’t really readers. They are quasi-humans descended from the genes of the three-headed dog that guards Hell. As such they guard the gates of literary stardom and obscurity with a fierce voracity. Jaded and judgmental they journey through piles of parchment penned pap, searching for the next STEPHEN…Seriously they are human. They read our stories with an expert eye to the marketability of our stories. They know the industry and the market. Perhaps in this climate they are less likely to take many risks but, on the whole, they are positive people. I try to remember this fact when I read; “While I liked the characters and the…I just don’t think I am the right agent for this project.”

One point of criticism that I will in all seriousness add is hire some of the out of work tech gurus and start accepting PDF attachments. Honestly they could use the work and are pretty cheap these days. I write in Scrivener, on a Mac, and exporting to rich text and fixing all the page breaks, margins, exotic punctuation, and ghost monkeys is more than a little challenging. “Please add in the body of your email three chapters…page margins of…with pink bows instead of periods and underlines for italics.” I think a correctly written query is enough to let you know if this person is real or not. Then decent antivirus software at the server level should be protection enough. Bring the PDF down to an Ipad for continued reading if you think the risk is too great. Imagine reading projects formatted and easy on the eyes? Nirvana right? If you have made the decision to spend four hours reading an MSS then surely the expenditure of two hundred bucks for an old Ipad is minuscule for the combined ease to you and writer alike. I wonder how many great writers get slush piled because they sent an email with difficult to read content?

  I have been making new friends here in Tbilisi and enjoying the country of Georgia. Inga and I have been helping out friends that run a place called The English Language Club. It is a great little club that does English language training and asked if we’d come and tell the kids about Canada. It was a hit and everyone had a great time learning. Me included!

Tbilisi, Georgia. Deep Traditions and Growing Change.

I am listening to your requests so this post will have a lot more pictures and be from more of a Travel Agent perspective. I have been in Tbilisi Georgia for a little more than three weeks. Inga has been away in Moscow working and so I have been left to my own devices. The apartment is clean and I haven’t burned the place to the ground despite it having a gas stove. It is has been pretty uneventful and while I would like to make something up to make this blog a little
more exciting. I will leave that to my fiction writing.

Speaking of my writing. The latest MSS is finished its second draft. It is currently out with test readers. I think the actual new term is Beta Readers. I prefer the latter as I am testing out ideas. Not everyone got the same MSS either. Some included the alternative ending and others the beginning. I am not sure which to use just yet, or if I’ll use either. I read a little bit of Donald Maass’s book on 21st-century fiction while the power was out. I’ve read it before but having just finished the MSS I was looking at it with a new light. I had just received a tweet from Bob Mayer about never writing ‘The End’ on your work as it is never really done. Well, the two things motivated me to take a big risk and write and alternative start to the project. Personally I think it is a pretty cool beginning to a very different military story. I like it, but we will have to see what the test readers say.

            The power went out today in the apartment building I am living in. Not really an unusual occurrence in the city. I take something frozen out of the bottom and put it in the top without thinking about it too much anymore. The bucket bath, a skill I picked up from my time in Anapa, made easier as we have gas so ‘WOOF’ a little missing arm hair and I have hot water. When the power came back, I went to take the garbage out and on the ride down it went out again. The old Soviet era elevator stopped. No drama. But also without an emergency descend to the bottom and open feature. I took stock of my garbage and found a two-liter bottle and some dried bread. I was in good shape. I could pee politely and had food. So I got comfortable in the corner and sat thinking. Not much else to do. No call button and no way in hell anyone would understand me if there was. It kind of struck me that life was similar to being stuck in an elevator. You have a planned floor to go to, but the doors could open at any minute and present you with other levels, other possibilities. The garbage you drag onto your personal elevator was just garbage a minute ago. Yet could come in handy during the trip and that you really have no control. I know we all love the illusion of control, being the master of your own destiny and all that crap. But in reality we don’t. All we have are intentions. I intended to go to the bottom floor and toss my garbage. Now I am running Die Hard scenarios out in my brain trying to find the hidden access door on the roof of my cell, and pondering climbing up and out of this mess. Luckily I didn’t find the access door and thirty minutes later the power returned and so did my journey. Perhaps I was channeling the fictitious Forrest Gump, but it did kind of strike me as a strange parallel. Remember I do believe everything happens for a reason. Like they say “Sometimes it is because you’re stupid and make bad choices.”

            I made the choice the other day to go for a walk and see what belonged to the fancy lights I could see in the distance. Not having Inga at home I had to go in the daylight as I lacked sufficient backup. I had been looking at this building in the distance for a long while and at night it is truly remarkable. It is out of place in the blend of the cities architectures both in design and the fact it is all lit up. It is also out near me, which is out in the middle of nowhere as far as the locals are concerned. If you have ever walked anyplace in Las Vegas, you will understand that big things look a great deal closer than they really are. There is probably another life parable here, but I will resist as I think I already have filled enough page centimeters for all the pictures you’ve been asking for.

It was 28 degrees metric when I started out on the journey. For the imperially educated that is hot. I walked on the roads I knew and it took me a round about way, but you all know I love walking. First I started seeing something I haven’t seen since home in Vancouver. Chinese people. First just one Chinese person, and then a couple, and soon a bunch. I thought I’d stumbled on a hidden Chinatown. In a way I had. The Hualing Group is a  private development group from XinJiang China and they have started a massive development in Georgia. By huge I do mean HUGE. They have set up a customs-free zone, built roads, a large market-style mall, hotel, recreation center, and housing in this out of the way area of Tbilisi. Having lived in Vancouver all my life I am used to how the Chinese do things. I think they probably invented the idea of “go big or go home.” The Great Wall comes to mind as an example. The quote “go big or go home” probably sounds better in traditional Hanyu as well. The pictures I have posted gives you an idea of the truly epic scope of these projects.  The mall market complex is almost finished and included stores that were open and staffed, actually overstaffed with Georgian sales people. I walked and looked inside a few shops and stopped to grab a Pepsi at one place that was set up as a café and playroom for children. Inside two men were speaking Mandarin and looking over a Hong Kong newspaper. I asked for a Pepsi from the salesgirl and they stopped talking, hearing me speak English. Both asked me, at the same time, where I was from. I confirmed that I did not know George. They had both been to Vancouver and loved it. I asked a little about the massive project and with obvious pride they explained that Georgia was quickly becoming a toehold in Europe for the Asia Pacific expansion. The company had bought controlling interest in a Georgian bank and had confirmed plans with the current Government. I asked about how the locals were reacting and both men looked at each before saying things were ok. Things are only ok when they are at a crossroads. I understand the local people need work as over 15% were unemployed according to the latest figures.  This development provides that, but I also know how Vancouver sometimes reacts to significant foreign investment and development. Georgia is no different and compared to British Columbia is significantly smaller. Georgia is 70 thousand square kilometers and British Columbia is 944 thousand square kilometers. Georgia’s population is 4.4million people and Vancouver’s is 2.93 million.

       

  I continued up the large, wide road used by many to test the mettle of their cars and bodies, and to my spied destination, past the massive ongoing development. I was very surprised to see that it was a Preference Hotel. Preference hotels may be relatively unknown to North Americans. They only have one hotel on the continent, and it is in Montreal. It is a French company that started in 2000 and focused on bringing true luxury to the traveler’s experience. This focus on experience has provided many awards to the properties they have. 

           The Orwellian architectural design is at both times foreboding and fitting. Hotels never want to be referred to as foreboding. But I use the word carefully. Georgia is a former Soviet State, and this historical reality is everywhere you look in building designs and signage. So this  beautifully foreboding building strikes a perfect balance between that history while not having to copy the bland older residential buildings in the district. It compliments the newly erected Hualing Tbilisi Sea New City residential buildings behind it. This feat would be similar to correctly matching a bow tie and jeans, with a traditional Cheongsam-inspired ladies polo shirt. The thought and design that went into creating this perfect blend reminded me of a story about making tea in a paper bag. If it is done perfectly the water prevents the bag from burning while over the fire as the tea steeps. 

This Orwellian theme dissolves the moment you walk into the expansive lobby of the hotel. The staff are attentive. Security was aware that I had walked into the hotel with running shoes, dusty from the long journey, and a moderately soaked dress shirt. I was slightly underdressed for a five-star hotel but apart from being noticed was not made to feel this way by the staff. Security and guest safety is an essential feature of any upscale hotel. But you do not want to be asked for a visa card when you come back from a jog or walk either. Again we see this balance in action, by the expertly trained staff.

A large reception of business types was going on and I grabbed a seat and watched how the Georgian team worked. I love showing up unannounced at a hotel and getting a real look at service levels. If you call ahead and say “Hi I am a travel consultant for Brave New World Travel and I’d like to arrange a tour of your property” you get a show. So I never do this. I like to sandbag the experience and see the reality. The staff was slammed with this impromptu meeting and handled it perfectly. While I watched the hotel General Manager walked by and said good afternoon in French. I responded in French and then introduced myself in English. Petter Lillvik switched to perfect English seamlessly and asked where I was from and if I was a guest. I explained my situation and he made the time to show me around the wonderful property without making it appear like he was making time. While I knew, he was an incredibly busy person I was made to feel like I was the most important person on the property at that time.

During the tour, he explained the hotel's soft opening and that the grand opening was in the future. He took pride in the property without appearing to be boastful. He told me the Chinese restaurant called be Ensemble had culinary experts from various regions in China and could handle private groups as well. The hotel was booked to near capacity. That size limited, as many rooms were not yet finished. One room was available, a regular room, and together we took the elevator to the floor as he explained the yet to be completed projects. The large recreation center is going to have the largest hotel indoor pool in Georgia and boasts yoga classes and saunas. The hotel's commitment to ‘Green’ energy usage demanded strict guidelines as well. All the air-conditioning is done with natural gas and the lights in the huge hallways are motion controlled.

The price point of this property is significantly less than other “like” venues and I put that word in quotes as this property is a five star using the Chinese standard and not the European one used by other properties. The old Marriot compares, as does the Radisson Blu. If I were to suggest a property to my clients, I would defer to this one because of its attention to guest experience and location. It is closer to the airport and has a daily shuttle to Old Tbilisi. It is in a quieter location and with its proximity to  Tbilisi Sea has much more to do. The locals all say the air is much better up here as well.

Tbilisi itself is a magnificent city and Georgian hospitality is as advertised. The locals like visitors and, generally speaking, go out of their way to help you experience the city. I have wandered all over the place and have yet to encounter any truly negative situations. Cabs are a bit of a challenge. But then they are in many European and North American cities as well. For the most part, they are un-metered and require a bit of haggling for locals and tourists alike. But then they are cheaper than any of those cities as well.

The Metro or subway is of old Soviet design and is an excellent way to cheaply see different areas of the city. You have to buy a card, and that costs two Lari and then a ride is.50 Lari. You can’t get the money back for the card unless you keep the paper receipt but for two Lari it is a cheap souvenir. The main line travels roughly East to West and a second line approximately North and South. A third line out to the airport has been under construction for years. The signs and announcements are in both English and Georgian and if you end up going the wrong way you can just get off and cross the platform. You can also leave the station and if you swipe again within an hour and a half from your first swipe, it is free. There is no need to swipe in and out like the silly system in London.

A Funicular also operates up to Mtatsminda Park and this is a splendid way to get one's bearings in this old city. You need to buy a card and again get another souvenir. But, the views and sights are well worth it. At the top, they have many restaurants, a nightclub, and many things for children to do. One of Tbilisi’s richest residents' houses is on display from this vantage point. The silver and glass house is owned by one of the richest men in the country and is truly beautiful in design. It even has its own enclosed heliport!  They also have a ride like the London Eye yet here it is on the top of the mountain and the views incredible. The easiest way to get to the Funicular is to follow the signs from Liberty Square and its magnificent monument of Saint George.

Tbilisi is a city in transition, expansion, and conflict. One could argue that this has been the case for centuries. Georgia wants to become a member of the United Nations and in all rights it should be. It holds deeply, traditions and traditional Orthodox beliefs and these bring it into conflict with the newer generation. The influence from the USA brings many of these traditionally held customs into question. Music and dress are influenced and, as in America, bring youth into disagreements with parents.  The speed of this transition is different. The instant share nature of the new world is placing challenges in this society without the support of the influencing nations. Bringing Georgia into the fold of the UN would relieve some of these pressures.

The youth all are taught English in school from grade one. The older adults speak Russian from their past education or occupation, depending on the point of view held. Children are now getting Russian language training as well in school starting in grade three. The strain of learning three languages is evident. A friend of mine, Magdalina, runs an English Language Club for children after school and it is very popular. She speaks English very well and her husband Alex speaks well enough.

While growing up speaking many languages is something I wish I had done, the support for such skills is left up to the individual families. English needs practice as many of the words and word prefixes make little sense. Mice, Mouse, House Houses, Moose Moose, the common plural Mooses has been dropped for being irksome. As well it should be but I believe you see the point. Practice is the make or break point for ANY language and with one as varied as English Magdalina is a real oasis in Tbilisi. She is enthusiastic and this rubs off on the students lucky enough to have found her. I shutter to think about higher learning and grammar usage as English is so fluid a language that it is always changing. That is at least my own excuse when I commit a faux pax and have a hundred people point it out via messages! Angela, Tim, David come to mind! But in truth I am better for the experience and my own writing as sloppy as it is allowed to be in a blog has got better for it.

I am going to leave this here, as it has already been over a month since my last blog. I will write more on the separate districts of Tbilisi and the countryside of Georgia as a whole in the future. Enjoy all the pictures you have requested.

Village life and tragedy experienced.

So we have been living the village life for a few days and it has been a great deal of fun and a learning experience. I want to be as honest as possible and at the same time be sensitive to cultural differences. Now I understand Russian culture but I do not understand Georgian culture yet. They are very proud and respect weighs heavy on decisions, as does obligation. Past those things, I am a babe in the woods. I know they are concerned I find the place a little rural and that roaming chickens, cows, and donkeys might upset my Canadian expectations. To be very honest, I have never been a country, boy. At no time in my life have I ever wanted to be a farmer. But I respect the level of work these people do every moment to ensure an abundant bounty is on the table. Everything we have been eating has been grown, milked, or collected right here. This is amazing and I have tried to explain that this organic lifestyle is a great luxury in Canada. I know I couldn’t afford to shop in natural stores at home on my salary. Here it is a given that the food you eat is organic. While I write, it is a given it is never taken for granted

This morning I was awoken by a donkey, braying his heart out. This was a first and one not accompanied by my usual thoughts when my sleep is interrupted by farm animals. Usually when the rooster wakes me up at my father in laws farm, I think of all the Kentucky Fried Chicken I have eaten. I haven’t eaten a donkey. Donkeys are loud, very loud and it is a funny saying that they tell time. I have tested this theory in a less than scientific manner and have to admit it seems feasible. The next-door donkey appears to be set at half-hour intervals beginning at half past the hour. I will steal a funny Georgian story, as I don’t know who to attribute the folk tale to.

A man from London was walking a village road when he came upon a Georgian farmer watching his cattle and lying on a hill. Beside him was a gray donkey. The London man asked the farmer if he knew the time. The Georgian man turned his head ever so slightly toward the donkey reached over and lifted up the donkey balls. He called out noon to the London visitor and went back to his sleepy tending of his herd. The London visitor was amazed and carried on his journey. Later he retold the story to an American in a wine bar a little ways down the road. The American came upon the same farmer as he continued his trip to town. He checked his watch. It was ten after five. He called out to the Georgian farmer asking for the time. The Georgian farmer did the exact same thing that the man from London had told him and replied, ten after five. The American was amazed and so he asked how the man could tell the time by lifting the donkey’s balls. The Georgian man replied. “How else am I supposed to see the clock tower in town?”

In this funny little story, we can see how folklore starts. In a country like Georgia rich in tradition and culture, it is a humorous tale that serves to explain some of the quaint beliefs. Some serve to protect us and others serve to entertain. Similar stories have been told to me about the issues sleeping under palm trees heavy with coconuts.

            Today was Vaxo’s, my cousin, daughter’s birthday. A cake was made and preparations in full swing for the ten or so children that would soon be here. Inga informed me that the men would be going to get some meat for the celebration and I was going with them. It was said with much fanfare, more drama than a butcher shop run should ever hold.

First the Soviet era 4x4 had to be gassed up for the journey. This entailed putting four liters of gas, they call it benzene, into a plastic four liter Mobile One oil container that was tied inside the engine compartment. This completed we started it up and let it run for a while as it hadn’t been started in a long time. Kaxa, Vaxo’s friend, joined us as we listened to the old truck run. I was introduced to Kaxa and he reminded me of a friend of mine, P, in Canada. Not that he looked similar but had been built similarly. I called P, Nexus Six after the special combat human
  replicants in the movie Blade Runner. Kaxa was built like a Nexus Nine. Larger and faster this was not a gym built swollen muscle, guy. This was a purpose built guy and I didn’t need to be told he was Special Forces. Quick to smile and share a laugh he jumped in the drivers seat and I again was given the honor of the front seat as Vaxo jumped in the back.

We set off into the countryside bouncing and picking our way to what I was starting to understand was not a mere Butcher shop. We did some serious offroad driving for about twenty minutes and then on a steep incline the truck quit. The load and terrain had combined to overheat the little beast. Kaxa quickly grabbed some water and after a few minutes we were back on the road.

The road ended at a farmhouse deep in the forest between some incredible mountain ranges. Several dogs announced our arrival and in formation circled us. Kaxa jumped out and greeted the dogs and I followed. In the Georgian fashion, he shouted at the farmhouse and soon a few men arrived. Greetings were made all around and we made our way to the goat herd. Negotiations took place and Kaxa identified a black goat that was just right. Separating it from the spooked herd he chased it into the barn and emerged seconds later carrying the displeased animal in front of him holding it by its hooves. I couldn’t help but be reminded of an old saying. “If you don’t want to get eaten by wolves, stay out of the forest.”

The goat was brought over to the trees in front of the farmhouse and killed by a quick, humane, and practiced blade thrust. Three men from the farm went to work skinning the goat and the dogs gathered for treats. The process was equally practiced and swift and when complete we were invited into the farmhouse by an older gentleman. It was obviously his operation and farm. He carried himself in a quiet and dignified manner and commanded respect. We were asked to join him for lunch and as we all washed up a table was pulled out onto the veranda and set up. Toasts were kept simple so I could understand them and the older man started by toasting my country and his. We enjoyed a meal and I tried as best as I could to get the gist of what was being said. I attempted to follow the toasting rules and think I did ok. The rules are different than the ones in Russia. One of the workers presented me with a folding knife that he had on the table. I looked at Vaxo in an attempt to make sure the worker actually meant the Russian word he was using, “Gift.” This was an incredible act of generosity and I was uncomfortable accepting it as I had nothing in return to give him. But it speaks to the countries acceptance of visitors and general respect and kindness they show guests to their country.

We loaded the goat into the back of the truck and made the bumpy and incredible return voyage down to the village. I really was overwhelmed by the experience, and by the beautiful countryside. We made it back without overheating again and joined the party already in full swing. Vaxo and Kaxa starting making shashlik, skewers of goat, using only the best cuts from the fresh animal while Uncle went and got a fire going inside the small barn. The first set of skewers were delivered to the children and women gathered in the large family room and together Vaxo and I prepared the rest for us.

During this time, Kaxa left suddenly and it took me a bit to find out why. His ten-year-old nephew had been hurt by a falling rock. The grandfather and grandmother had taken the boy out to a well-used swimming area for some relief from the hot weather and a BBQ. On the trip home a large boulder fell from the cliffs near the road and struck the car. The boy had been transported to a local hospital. Vaxo continued taking care of his guests despite the fact he would have rather been with his friend during this horrible time. Later while we were eating the goat and drinking some wine Vaxo’s wife received the news that the boy had died from his injuries.

The community as a whole gathered on the street by Kaxa’s home waiting for the news. I went out and attempted to show my respect to the kind man I had only met that day. That he is loved and respected by the community was evident. They shared his pain as a community of peers and equals. I found myself moved by the Georgian sense of community and love in this small village of amazing people.


    For Vaniko, your young life was cut short far too early. Rest In Peace.

First Impressions of Georgia

So we arrived in Tbilisi late in the afternoon and grabbed a taxi to our new apartment. We met our Cousins near the road our place is located and they guided us the rest of the way and helped drag our luggage up to the eighth floor. To be perfectly honest, I was a little concerned. I am used to Soviet era apartments and the general outside being not as important as the inside. However, as I said even, I was a little concerned. If you are coming from NYC, Florida, or Toronto, it will be quite a shock. But relax, have faith and things should work out for you. Fight the urge to run screaming back to the airport. There is that clear enough for you? We loaded the elevator three times as they are tiny here, and you have to pay for them. We are lucky it is a simple monthly fee in other places you have to drop a coin in a very large, compared to  space, box and this allows you to go up and down. My cousin sensing my urge to bolt opened the apartment when we arrived with the first load and went down for the rest allowing me to look at the place.

It is huge, big rooms, modern kitchen, and lovely views. We have half of the floor with balconies on both sides and big windows all around. It is very nice and not at all representative of the downstairs. Curb appeal has even less influence in Georgia! We were sent on our journey in typical Russian form and had loads of snacks, food, and things one needs for a week despite the trip only taking five hours.

Our cousins welcomed us with typical Georgian hospitality. For North Americans, this means treating you like visiting Royalty. Toasts and the food were enjoyed and then we were delivered back to our home for our first night.

            The next morning brought chores like banking, mobile phone sims, and internet connections. Inga’s cousin’s wife helped out and the whole thing was painless and smooth despite a little drama about the machine eating my card. It didn’t and despite general concerns about exchange rates it is like anyplace else in the world that allows you to take out your money from a machine in the wall. This comes with one caveat. In Tbilisi Georgia, you can withdraw Lari, the local currency, or the United States Dollars directly from the cash machine, or cash point for my European readers. My Russian sister Lianna had said you could do this and I thought something had been lost in translation. I have traveled a bunch and haven’t seen this except perhaps at specialized machines in international airports. After the chores and ensuring everything was working fine we sat down for the evening for another feast and discussion about the upcoming trip to “The Village”.

            “The Village” is the little town were Inga’s two Aunts live. It is about an hour and forty minutes by minibus from the central bus station in Tbilisi. The scenery on the trip out reminded me of the Okanagan and the surrounding area. The Village reminds me of my Uncle Jocks farm near Spy Hill by the Manitoba border in the 1960’s. Except I was never there in the sixties, but I remember him telling a story about getting a “throne” in the house after I was born.  The farmhouse has internal plumbing, and an awesome hot shower large enough to wash a horse in. But, the toilet is outside and it is the squat type that causes my calves and thighs to clench. Clenching calves and painful past ninety degree squats are not conducive to easy morning relief no matter how much coffee I drink.  I contemplated changing the design to a North American one. My hosts were very concerned about the rustic bathroom and my Canadian sensibilities. However, a little research on the internet provided me the information that we are doing it wrong. The past ninety-degree angle aligns everything perfectly and it is simply my inexperience at adopting the position that is the problem.  Russian and Georgian people take this position for resting and having a cigarette in casual situations or waiting for a bus. In exploring my bench with a toilet seat idea further, I had to admit a further flaw that even I was familiar with. The dreaded spider!

I have always hated sitting in outhouses. I mean who really likes it. Even if the outhouse is of the variety called ‘the long drop’ they always smell. Even in –20 they somehow manage to reek. But, the worst for me is the giant hairy Brown Recluse spider. Each time I am forced to use one of these I imagine this large lonely spider, brown hairs protruding from his hairy back. The violin pattern mottling from which it derives its other name a warning to other lesser spiders to stay away. He is sitting quietly getting fat off all the flies and other insects his ripe real estate affords him when his world gets plunged into darkness. A vibration more violent than an insect strike stirs his web. His multiple eyes focus on the source, a large hairy pale body descending into his domain. Forced by nature to defend his territory he raises his front feet and exposes his sharp fangs. The interloping sickly pale, loose skin intruder does not retreat. He has to attack. In a quick motion, he attacks sinking his fangs and injects venom that causes the flesh to rot. It will destroy a quarter size area of skin, more than enough for the average spider. Except this ‘spider’ is not a spider at all. The case of mistaken identity is no cause for concern to our Violin spider as he is deaf to the screams of men and is happy as the brightness returns and the flies once again fly into his banquet web. So with all this in mind I had to admit that the open pit squat was a far better design. I just have to get used to the position.

The people are great and the farmhouse itself is very cool. The family here has welcomed us with open arms and despite language issues have done everything and more to ensure the Canadian guests are happy. Uncle can speak better Russian than me and we struggle along with this common foreign tongue. But he is as easy going as me, so even sharing silence and a short walk is done happily. The children have been overdosing on English with Inga and laughing their collective asses off getting me to say words in Georgian. We had another huge feast last night and met another cousin who invited me to go hunting in the morning. We had shared a few liters of wine and I was pretty tired so I politely declined. A few toasts later and with Inga’s encouragement I agreed. I climbed into bed with the knowledge that in four short hours I would be climbing into an unknown vehicle, with unknown men to go hunting for unknown prey.

            The roosters dream woke me up. The damn bird must have been dreaming as sunrise was hours away. I am not a morning person, less so when I have only slept three hours. I tried to dress in the dark and not wake Inga, but she must have been feeling slightly guilty for talking me into this and got up to make me coffee in the strange dark kitchen. We heard the men gathered on the street as we exited the house and I tried and failed to complete my morning waking ritual. The morning was crisp, the coffee hot, and the clenching yoga position was looming. Things only loom in foreboding. The dark walk was looming, the men were waiting, and Inga was fussing. She was only concerned about my comfort and happiness and I was focused on ensuring my intestinal fortitude for the drive and avoiding having to make gesturing hand signals to communicate; “Stop before I shit myself.” While this might be a little too much information for the casual reader, I am only saying what you all know and don’t admit to anyone. Five armed and unknown men are not nearly as imposing as rumbling lower large intestine in a vehicle you don’t control and with a driver that you can’t communicate with. Coffee worked its magic and I was able to join my hunting party on time and in reasonable shape.

         

The vehicle was a Delica minivan and while it had some off-road attachments it didn’t look up for any serious off-road driving. This is another instance in which I shouldn’t have judged a book by its cover. This little four-wheel drive machine did things I wouldn’t have believed possible if I’d seen a video of a pro driver on a closed course. The darkness was abating as we climbed deep into the Georgian countryside. The thick bush giving way only for a mud covered track containing hills and corners with angles the threatened to flip us over. On one such hill, I was seriously wondering if it were possible to roll backward in a minivan.

We arrived at the spot. I only knew it was the spot because everyone got out and let the dogs out. I had no idea we had dogs inside the van until this point and they obviously didn’t know a Canadian was in the van as they all came over and introduced themselves in the usual dog way. I was even happier for the earlier coffee. My cousin handed me a Turkish made 12-gauge auto shotgun and five rounds. I couldn’t ask about the legality of me carrying a shotgun in Georgia so I just accepted it and loaded it. I noticed a couple of the men were watching to see if I knew my way around firearms and could safely handle it. I passed the test and with everyone relieved and the dogs pulling at leashes we set off in the dark. We walked in silence and the dogs barked ideas and options at one another. I believe they collectively decided on following the white female dog as it was easier for the night-blind humans.

However, the decision was arrived at we found ourselves in a clearing between three mountain valleys. Two men went north and left and two others went right and Inga’s cousin and I were to remain in the middle. In Africa, this would be called the flush point. I still didn’t know what our prey was. In Canada, we hunt birds and clay pigeons with shotguns and while I know the rest of the world does things, differently I was a little concerned as I saw what looked like cat and bear tracks.

The Sun came up behind our position and it was a beautiful thing to see. The mist caught in the trees before being tugged toward the clouds and I fingered my stolen toilet paper and scanned a nice relaxing location to trundle off for a more normal and relaxing Canadian style squat.

We hunted for several hours. The other men hunted with the dogs and we occasionally heard them bray from our dedicated kill zone. It was a good plan. It didn’t work and it was a very enjoyable. The men returned in slow succession in that defeated way hunters do. Happy to have the time to hunt and wishing it had been more successful. I was happy to share the time and culture of this Men Only sport here in Georgia.

            Defeated by chance we returned to the other thing hunters do the world over. We tossed plastic water bottles into the air and blasted them with shotguns. I liked this and in truth was a lot more confident blasting a water bottle than a bear! The hunt completed I was offered the front seat for the drive home and accepted this honor quickly. The drive back was even more beautiful and I shared it with men that only knew my name and family connection. We couldn’t communicate in the usual way, but there were no awkward moments. I pondered this and found it odd. We shared so little past being men and yet we all were comfortable with just that.  The “Village” life is at first glance a little simple, but it does afford people with the gift of time. As we age, we understand time is priceless. While the young people in Georgia move to the big exciting cities of Tbilisi and Batumi to escape the village; many return. Not because they fail in their goal but because they realize the simple fact that sometimes, fast progress and a frenetic life isn’t everything as imagined. Sometimes adopting other designs is just a pain in the balls!

                        In case it is illegal for a Canadian to carry a shotgun in Georgia parts of this story are fictional and only representative of what it would be like actually doing the things portrayed in this fictional account.