25 August 2012

I have been in Georgia for a week and a half, and it has proven to be far from what I expected. T’bilisi was a charm of Anti-Soviet relics, a broken down city flush with old-time flavor and an omnipresent construction effort to push the city away from the past and into a modern, western feel. I felt a metropolis being built around me as I walked down the sidewalk or rode through the street (and somehow avoided what Georgians call driving – more of an automotive cacophony of merging and blinking, the superficial courtesy of blinkers belying the complete disregard for lanes, right of way, and rearview mirrors). It is a jarring disparity in the life of a pedestrian to be first treated with such ill contempt, only to finish training and be sent into the far off mountain regions of Samegrelo Zemo and Village Khabume, Chkhorotsksus, the rural Georgian answer to what Patrick must be trying to achieve in far-flung Ohio. Here pedestrians are the norm and the typical aggression that fuels the driving is treated as a disturbance rather than a luxury, and the only thing that challenges the biped is the delinquent meandering of the animals that roam freely: cows, pigs, goats, and chicken have real control of the roads in the village, and about as much regard for blinkers and proper lane usage (no one has emblazoned their cars or carts with bumper stickers crying to ‘share the road’).

My host family and living arrangements have been the biggest surprise, both from what I was expecting before I left and the picture that was painted for me during training. Electricity runs freely in my house and at all hours of the day, and water seems to be of such bountiful supply that I am yelled at when I turn the faucet on and fill my cup right away, rather than wait until the water runs cold enough to please what Georgians perceive to be my discerning and spoiled palate. While it is strange to watch the meandering of wildlife, it is even stranger to conceptualize the ultimate fate of the livestock that has taken over as my alarm clock. The cows are kept alive until they are fat enough to sell or become dinner, and the number of chickens fluctuates depending on if it is before or after dinner. At night the three cows are milked and the pot of not quite 2% or skim milk is immediately brought to a boil and mixed with NesQuik chocolate powder, and I get my goodnight cup of unprocessed hot chocolate.

I am glad that I took the opportunity before I left to start my delve into country music, because all of those Tobey Keith and Kenny Chesney types had no idea what they were talking about when they professed their love for slow moving country living, carefree day drinking, and poor life on the farm. I realize I have only been here for a few days, but a change has already begun its effect on me, and I wonder how much of a cementing will continue over the rest of this journey. At the very least, it has given me enough to ponder and desire for a first entry, and has hopefully provided enough entertainment for what might be have felt like an obligatory trip into this journal thing I am trying to do. Perhaps you even enjoyed yourself enough to come back and look, at least when the rest of your Facebook newsfeed doesn’t offer anything more glamorous and exciting.

More to come in the future, thanks for stopping by.