Tuesday 25 August 2015

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.

Friday 21 August 2015

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.



Thursday 6 August 2015

My last week in Anapa, Russia.



    I have been doing a bunch of thinking lately. Yes, I know how dangerous that can be. But hey, you’re sitting at home safe and sound so have a sip of coffee or vodka and come along with me on this little ride. I am not going to include a bunch of pictures in this blog as I want you to form your own.

     I am always amazed when life tosses things in front of you when you either least expect it or need it the most. Like catching the perfect iPod mix on random while doing an equally random drive or walk. This has happened to me this week past the point of coincidence. Those of you that know me well understand my love of this sacred geometry of chance. Either you’ve played poker with me or sat next to me at a blackjack table. Winning or losing I love watching the odds. Not that I can understand odds correctly, my math skills are too underdeveloped for that. I just get caught up in the awe of impossible and relish the unlikely. This week has brought this to my door. Inga is running about in a packing frenzy as we prepare for the move to Georgia. Inga hates packing, but she is getting used to it with all our bounces over the past year. She also has her very own system for doing it and my system is to stay out of her way while she does. So I have been getting a great deal of writing done. I try to help as I can, but mostly I just try to be supportive. We have already rented a beautiful three bedroom two bath eighth-floor apartment in Tbilisi. We don’t need all the extra room, but our cousins helped to find and organize it all and got us a great deal so a little extra is better than a little tight. I will be telling you all about Georgia when we actually get there, but I discovered an odd fact just renting the place from here in Anapa. In Georgia, you pay to use the elevator in your own building. Just going up! I am sure North Americans will find this very strange like I did. It isn’t much and it gets added as a monthly charge to your utility fees. It makes sense in that odd way something so different makes you kinda think Hmmm?

     So this couple of weeks have brought a few finished chapters, a stack of boxes, and serendipity. Messages out of the random ether of the internet, Facebook posts, and introspection have been plotting to make me think a little. For example, a random like by a new friend of our wedding photo reminded me what a wonderful wife and life partner I have. Another random comment reminded me of what the two of us find value in; living life. Finishing the last chapter of my latest MSS had me tempted to write ‘the end’. A message from another source reminded me that as satisfying writing ‘the end’ is;  a story is rarely ever finished. So like the look of the packing. But I also know it will be done in time and correctly, I hope just like the latest story. What allows me to see these random strings is time, I am blessed with the time to slow down and smell the roses as they say and see the interconnectedness of these random items in an overall contextual framework. Inga and I pair well in this regard as she continues to put things we need in a pile to take and things we probably won’t need in a box to pack away. Dripping with sweat as if in a Stalinesque exercise video as it is very VERY hot here in Anapa right now. Me counting on her and she counting on me to see the overall picture so something important doesn’t get missed. It isn’t really fair as she is doing much more work. But it doesn’t have to be for each of us appreciates the different gifts and styles each bring to the relationship. We have a common goal and an uncommon bond. It is after all my idea and desire to stay in Russia. The common objective is happiness and it is very uncommon that both people share the definition of that nebulas word.

To that end, I managed to pass my Russian immigration test. The test is very hard. I’ve been told so is the one to pass Canadian Citizenship exam. I am not sure if this is true, but I know in Canada you get three years to do it while I only had three months. My teachers at the CenterSoyus.ru here in Anapa were awesome. So was, once again, Inga. Friends also chipped in to help the lone Anapa Canadian and together we were successful. I passed! I found out after I had passed I needed to achieve seventy percent on the exam to do so! I had been shooting for fifty-one!! So it is official and certified by the Russian Government I can speak, read, and write Russian and understand its history and laws. In truth, I know more than I can say correctly but I can make myself understood and understand written forms and the like. I still mess up masculine and feminine plurals and stuff bringing a smile usually when they know I am Canadian. They understand as most have tried to learn our obscure and confusing language as well.

    So I have already mentioned the latest MSS is complete as far as the creative end goes. It was a joy to write using Scrivener. I don’t usually endorse platforms or products here, but this is the easiest method for writing a novel. If you’re using WORD stop! This is the product to use and while the learning curve is as hard as Photoshop it is just as powerful. I still write in Pages and post into Scrivener as I am used to doing it that way but the ability to export it as a perfectly formatted PDF and search back through all the scenes with a click make continuity edits and editing, in general, a dream. I bought the program after Jack Whyte had said he used it.

So now I have the two-part process of editing this latest MSS and making it a book and finding an agent.  Remember it is only a book after it gets an ISBN! To this end, I have been doing a ton of research for agents that specialize in Military Fiction and don’t mind a non-USA centered point of view. I am not really sure which will prove harder. But the sequel is done. It is tight, sharp and focused. Finds Rhys up against impossible odds still loving his quirky cat!