Reflecting on working with Georgians

We’ve recently been tasked with revamping the academic program at the National Defense Academy here in Georgia.  I’ve been thinking about that and how we should approach it.  So I’m thinking aloud here, basing a lot of my thinking on my experiences in Iraq.  Sometimes it seems we have a “reverse Midas” situation – everything we touch turns to crap.  And the main reason is, we rely too much on what works for us.  I think it’s important that we don’t try to teach the Georgians how to do things the American way using American procedures.  I saw every contractor in Iraq do that; I know that I’ve been guilty of doing that with the Academy’s tactical officers and occasionally with my own “advisee,” and I know it would be a terrible idea to try it with the Academy folks because when our suggestion/recommendation doesn’t work we don’t ask why it failed; we simply say to the host nationals, “OK, then try it this other (American) way,” and to ourselves we say, “Thank God we’re here to fix this.”

You see, American contractors tend to look at problems in one of three ways:  as colonialists, as imperialists, or as missionaries.  This leads to either patronization, where we treat the locals as our servants, or to paternalism, where we treat them as children.  Obviously, neither of these is going to work with the current Georgian group.

My experiences in Iraq taught me several things:  1) if the locals don’t want your help, leave them alone.  We can’t force our ideas on them; all we can do is wait for them to decide to try our ideas.  2) To be successful, we have to take on the mindset of a servant instead of a leader.  That means asking the people we’re trying to help, “What do you feel is important and what do you want to do?  What does the final product look like to you?”  And that means that, sometimes, we have to direct them away from what they think they want.  They may want something that’s too hard, too costly, too dangerous, or just too wrong for them.  We have to direct them, through soft power, to what is best for them.  Once we do this, our role is to help the customers find the knowledge they need to do what they want to do.  Sometimes we’ll be the source of that information; sometimes we won’t.  If we’re not the source of that information, we have to do the research to provide it.

We forget that our job is to talk – specifically, to ask questions.  Even though it may sound counter intuitive because we’re supposed to be the advisor/expert, we need to listen more.  Our job is not to tell the Georgians what to do and how to do it.  Our job is to shut up and listen, and to offer options and ideas once they decide what they want to do.  Our guiding question should be:  “What can we do to help you get to where you want to be?”  Where they want to go is sometimes irrelevant; how they get there isn’t.  Having said that,…

Planning is incompatible to advising because we plan in a vacuum, because we plan using US methodologies and procedures, and because we plan assuming greater US resources and motivation.  I see our role as guiding the Georgians in their planning process, no matter how inefficient or slow that process may be.  I see our role as being planning resources for the Georgians, just as we would use higher sources in the US.  We also have to look at the Georgian planning process from their point of view.  The most important – if not the ONLY – things we can contribute to that process are confidentiality (so they’re not afraid to bounce ideas off us), passionate service (so they learn to trust us), and truth, specifically where they are, what they have, and what they need.  All of these, however, must be based on what they want, not on what we think they need.  This will be easier if we delete the word “I” from our vocabulary, substituting the word “we.”

We can’t change the Georgians; however, we can be a part of the Georgians changing themselves.  That means picking our battles.  And fighting small.  Let’s get some wins under our belt, let’s let the Georgians win a few battles, before we tackle the big issues. 

The late Carnegie Mellon Professor Randy Pausch wrote a book, and later produced a video, called The Last Lecture.  If you haven’t seen it, you should watch it; it’s on youtube.  In that book and lecture, he said a good lecture has a “head fake” built into it.  That’s where you think the lecture is about one topic designed for a specific audience, then you discover it’s meant to be a totally different topic for another audience.  Did you catch the head fake here?  I’m not talking about training Georgians; I’m talking about raising teenagers.

Thanks for reading.  And good luck.

The Georgian way of doing things

I’m planning my escape home in May.  The plan is for me to come home for Dan’s graduation and then Debbie will accompany me back to Georgia, spend a couple of weeks here, and then fly back alone.  So I did my due diligence online, scouring the web for cheap airfares.  I had to use a local travel agent because I couldn't get my return flight (PHL to TBS) to show up on Debbie's itinerary. In other words, I couldn't get us on the same flights online. It took 6-1/2 hours to get everything straight. It took only an hour or so to find an itinerary that worked -- short layovers and cheap fares. Then the bureaucracy that is Georgian rules kicked in.

Air France won't accept credit card payments online from Georgia (Georgia has an international reputation for running credit card fraud rings. It's been cleaned up a lot in the last 3 years or so, but the reputation is still there.) so I had to pay only cash. No problem. I go to the local TBC bank but they have a limit on how much cash I can get on my Amex. They recommend getting half today and half tomorrow except the travel agent has told me the itinerary might not be there tomorrow, so I decide to try my luck at the Bank of Georgia. Except the Bank of Georgia won't accept Amex so I have to use my debit/Visa card. Again, no problem. Except they need my passport for such a large transaction of cash. So off I go back to my flat to get my passport (not far but irritating especially in the cold). So now I have cash. (I'm making this seem easier than it was; it took over an hour and a half with waiting in lines at TBC and then BoG, running back to my flat, waiting in line again, getting the paperwork, & then waiting in line at the cashier window.)

So now I'm back at the travel agent (again, still walking in the cold). But before they can take my money and issue the tix, they need my passport info. No problem; I still had it with me from the trip to the bank. They make a copy and write down all the info they need. It’s going too well, I guess, so the travel agent throws me a curve.  Not one of the big, roundhouse, spinning curves you can see coming and time properly.  This curve is more of a Steve Carlton slider – looks like a fastball until you start your swing, and then, whoosh!  It’s gone.  Unhittable.  So here comes the slider:  the travel agent also needs Debbie's passport info. Why?, I ask. Because Ukraine Air doesn't accept e-tix so they're printing hard copies which can only be done after verifying passenger info and identity which is, of course, a passport. I think I have Debbie's info on my computer which is, of course, back in my flat. So back I go (farther than the bank walk so at least I'm getting my exercise for the day). Fire up my laptop; plug in my thumb drive, and voila! All of the info I need on Debbie's old, expired passport. Frustration level rising rapidly.

I call Debbie at her office. "Do you happen to carry your passport info on you? No, I didn't think so. Where is your passport? In the blue box? Got it. Thanks. I love you. Bye." So I call Dan (about 8.30am in PA). Dan runs up to the office but can't find the blue box. I tell him to call Debbie and then get on Facebook. He does this (very quickly, I might add) and gives me the info I need over FB. I then run back to the travel agent (OK, walk fast; it's been a long day). I give them Debbie's passport info (which is now in my updated thumb drive folder for the next time this comes up), doublecheck and verify my itinerary, and sign the form stating that I know the tix are non-refundable, non-transferable, and non-changeable. Time to give them my money and get the tix. Except their cashier is on dinner break. I wait 30 more minutes until he shows. I pay and go back to the travel agent's desk (who, by the way, can see the cashier's window and has watched me pay). She asks for the receipt from the cashier. Back I go, mumbling under my breath words that would greatly increase, but not necessarily enhance, the agent's knowledge of English. I get the receipt and hand it to the agent. She then, finally, prints my tix, gives me my itineraries, staples my receipts to the envelope, and hands me back the passport information. I leave the travel agent for home, 6-1/2 hours after I first walked in. And I'm pissed because I should have known better. Georgia runs on bureaucracy (holdover from the old Soviet days, I imagine). I should have realized this and left my flat with my passport, laptop and thumb drive, and cash that I had gathered over the previous 2-3 days.   But I didn't think ahead, so it cost me a lot of time and karmic energy. It's harder now to escape Georgia than it was when the Soviets ran this place.  Oh, well, at least I have the tix.

Just another Georgian day, giving me the opportunity to burn off some bad karma.  Thanks for reading.

Adventures of a wannabe foodie in Tbilisi

I like my little apartment.  A lot.  I like being able to walk around in my underwear and to put my feet up on the table and to eat my dinner seating on the couch watching TV.  I like scratching where it itches and singing along with iTunes.  I even like cooking for myself.  OK, I REALLY like cooking for myself.  I have a few specialties that I can do well – breaded chicken breasts, for example, and I have had more than a few failures – I’m looking at you, bologna stir fry.  But as much as I like cooking for myself, I like food shopping that much more.  There’s something about looking at a collection of meats, fish, fruit and vegetables and thinking of what I can make from them.  I imagine it’s the same feeling an artist gets when he looks at his palette of oil paints.  (Now THERE’S the height of hubris – comparing my limited abilities at the stove with those of an artist at his canvas; but this is my blog so I can indulge myself a bit.)  And Tbilisi has more than its share of places to buy food.

There are, of course, the big three – Carrefour, Goodwill, and the Embassy Commissary.  The first two are comparable to a Super Walmart; they’re both a large big box type of store with a well-stocked grocery section.  Carrefour is French and most of the products are European; the Goodwill has goods mostly from Russia.  The Commissary is the go-to place for American foods that we can’t find anywhere else in country – peanut butter, Bisquick, and bologna, for instance.  And at the Commissary I can read the labels on the cans and jars. 

Originally, I thought I’d just look at the picture on the label, thinking that naturally a picture of the inside would be on the outside.  Until I hit the baby food aisle with hundreds of cans with pictures of babies on the outside.  So that logic petered out.  In Carrefour the labels are mostly in French or German.  I can usually make those out pretty well.  Occasionally I run into some Italian or even Polish, but by looking at the other cans in the aisle I generally get the idea.  In Goodwill, however, this is not a good strategy because most every label is in Russian or Georgian.  I remember once when Dan, as a child, got into the pantry and pulled all the labels of the cans.  After a week of beets for breakfast and condensed milk for dinner, I learned to lock the pantry door.  That’s what it’s like in Goodwill – I know there are some cans I want and some I don’t, but figuring out which is which is often just a game of chance.  I might as well flip a coin. 

That’s one of the frustrating things about the big box stores.  They have everything you’d want, but it’s hard to figure out where and even what it is sometimes.  And even if I figure out what’s in the can or jar, the preparation instructions are written in the same language as the label.  Now we’re off on another adventure.  I usually inspect the label for numbers.  6-8, for example, on a package of frozen ravioli probably means 6-8 minutes in water.  But does it really?  Is the ravioli already cooked?  If not, for how long should I cook it?  I assume it goes into boiling water.  Or does it?  Do I add it to already boiling water or dump it in cold water and bring it to a boil?  How long should it boil?  Obviously, my inexperience as a foodie is quite the hindrance.  I can make spaghetti and hard boiled eggs and breaded chicken breasts.  After that, well, it’s all a learning experience.  My fallback solution is to figure out what’s in the can or jar or frozen package and look it up on foodnetwork.com, the foodie’s Rosetta Stone.  From there I can usually figure out how to cook whatever it is I’ve picked up.  After some more research, usually, to decipher instructions like “braise” or “parboil” or “blanch.”  Whatever happened to “fry” or “boil” or “stick in a 350⁰ oven for 30 minutes?” 

Which leads to another problem – my oven.  It’s gas, which, I understand, is a good thing.  It has to be lit by a match and then the temperature set.  But the knob doesn’t have temperature markings.  Instead, it has a small flame and a large flame.  Nothing else.  I bought an oven thermometer, in Celsius, of course, which if nothing else has strengthened my mental math skills:  “Let’s see, 200 Celcius times 1.8 is, hmmm.  And then I add 32 or do I subtract 32?”  So much of my cooking is frying.  Fried pork chops, fried eggs, fried chicken, fried everything.  Except what is boiled:  oatmeal, eggs, spaghetti, and frozen ravioli.  As you can imagine, it does make for some gastronomical adventure if not courage to accept an invitation to eat at my place. 

So while I do shop at the big box stores, nothing compares to the adventure and joy of shopping on the economy, especially at this time of year.  The traditional Christmas and New Year meals here are turkey and suckling pig, so numerous stalls have popped up selling both live and dressed turkeys and pigs.

You simply pick the one you like and wait while it’s butchered and dressed or you can pick one all ready for the oven.  Same with the fish:  pick the one you like, tell the man how you want it, and boom!  It’s done.  Sort of like street theater, if you’re idea of street theater is Benihana’s. 

Or you can pick a nice pork roast or rack of ribs from the Pig Man.  He’s set up a nice little road side stand right outside the National Defense Academy where he peddles his pork.  (That almost sounded inappropriate – peddles his pork.)  Fortunately, the meat is now kept fresh by the natural refrigeration of the weather.  I’ve seen pork like this hanging all day in the summer heat; caveat emptor, I guess. 

 

 I like the marketplaces best of all.  The fruits and veggies are displayed beautifully, are dirt cheap, and are remarkably fresh.  I do wonder, however, how they’re getting fresh bananas and pineapples in Georgia. 

You can buy ANYTHING in these markets.  If you’re a big coffee drinker, you can buy coffee beans in bulk – 50 kilograms (110 lbs.) worth of bulk.  I’ve also bought spices here in bulk.  Too much bulk, actually.  Do you know how much spice those small containers in the grocery store contain?  One ounce, usually; that’s almost 30 grams.  The prices of the spices are listed per 100 grams.  So, it made sense to me to buy 100 grams each of my favorite spices – cinnamon, cardamom, oregano, tarragon, thyme, and paprika.  Do you know how much 100 grams of cinnamon really is??  It’s a large, large bag; that’s how much.  Anyone need to borrow any spices?  Come see me; I have quite a large supply.  And I wondered why the clerk looked at me so strangely when I said I wanted 100 grams of each.  She must have thought I was trying to corner the market.  At the very least I gave her something to talk about with the other spice merchants when I left.  Hell, I’m surprised she didn’t shut the stall and go home – I definitely helped make her quota that day.  Of course, I won’t be buying any more spices the whole time I’m here so maybe I’m not so dumb after all.

My all-time favorite places to shop, however, are the markets on the corners outside of my apartment building.  They usually have a large variety of fruits and vegetables and always seem happy to see me.  This is actually kind of surprising considering my usual purchase is something like two potatoes and an onion or a small bunch of carrots and one broccoli tree.  Or, if I’m really hungry, a small bag of beans (not magic beans, unfortunately; and by the way, beans are not a fruit, magical or otherwise), two apples, a small hand of bananas (yes, a bunch of bananas is called a “hand” of bananas.  I strive to educate as well as entertain.), and a cantaloupe.  I’ve learned not to pick things myself, though.  I picked up an onion the other day just to have the woman who runs the market actually slap my hand until I dropped the onion.  She then picked one she thought better and handed me that one.  So now I point at what I want and show her with my hands how many I want – either by showing her fingers or by holding my hands out like I’m talking about a fish I’d just caught:  hands close together for a small bunch of grapes or wide apart for a big bag of walnuts.  I’m sure she thinks I’m a few feathers short of a whole duck, so I think she feels sorry for me.  I’m sure she wonders how I’m actually cooking her produce without burning down the whole apartment building.  (“All foam, no beer,” I can hear her thinking as I walk away.)

She also thinks my foodie IQ is lower than the temperature.  She points to produce that I’ve never seen before and have no idea how to prepare or eat it.  Pomegranate, for example.  How the hell do you fix pomegranate?  And what do you do with all the seeds?  Does it get peeled or eaten like an apple?  She points out to me these items and laughs when I look puzzled.  (Maybe she doesn’t like me that much after all; I could just be her only source of amusement.  A walking circus, perhaps, albeit one a few clowns short.)  So we’ve both learned to stick with the basics – potatoes, green beans, onions, tomatoes, apples, bananas, and grapes.

Then it’s inside for staples.  These corner markets are like American convenience stores – just the basics.  My local market is very small with one aisle through the center.

 

Here’s where I buy milk, bread, eggs, and beer – the four food groups.  Just the other day, though, while walking down the center aisle (which is only wide enough for one person; when someone else wants something at the end of the aisle, she either has to wait for me to get out of her way, push me aside – the most likely course of action – or do an end run around the store’s walls.) I did a classic TV double take – they had Ripples potato chips!  Real, honest-to-God Ripples.  Not Russian knock offs, not soggy potato crisps (whatever the hell those are), not even locally made Pringles wannabes.  No, actual Ripples.  Fortunately, I’m still allowed in the store despite my doing the happy dance in the center aisle, holding the Ripples over my head like a trophy, emitting primal screams of victory and joy, and stripping the shelf of every single bag. 

Maybe that’s why I enjoy food shopping; it is, in itself, a type of adventure.  Finding what you’re looking for, or finding something you didn’t even know you were looking for, takes away some of the frustration of not being able to tool down to the local Acme and filling your cart with familiar items.  So that’s my New Year’s resolution:  trying to take each event, even one as mundane as food shopping, as an adventure.  Let the fun begin.

Thanks for reading, and Happy New Year! 

 

 

The Ballad of Zhenia and Niko

Georgians, like a lot of Europeans, get married twice – once in an “official” civil ceremony and once in the church.  Our friend, Niko, was married several years ago in a civil ceremony.  Since his wife, Zhenia, became pregnant, however, she’s been thinking about getting married in the church so their baby can be christened/baptized in the church. Niko's been trying to make that happen, but he's been divorced before, something the Eastern Orthodox Church does not take lightly or kindly. So he's been talking to the Bishop of Tbilisi to get the Georgian equivalent of an annulment so he can make a church wedding happen. I say "talking to" when "financially negotiating" might be a better description. The Bishop decides Niko can get married in the Church if he makes a rather sizable "donation" to the Patriarchate (somewhere in the neighborhood of $2000). But, and here's the catch: he must get married TODAY. Seems that once he annuls the first marriage, Niko would be living in sin (despite the civil ceremony) so he has to get married immediately or move out of the apartment he shares with his wife and parents. Niko obviously decides to get married today.

So, since we're on the way to work while all this is happening, we do a U-turn and head back to Tbilisi while Niko makes phone calls. The only thing scarier than Niko's driving is Niko's driving while he's on the phone. His first call is not to his wife, as one would expect, but to his father to find out if the "donation" is reasonable. After determining that $2k is steep but reasonable (considering Niko has no choice in the matter), Niko calls the Bishop and agrees to get married today. Note he still hasn't called his wife.

Niko then calls his designated best man so he can leave work early for the wedding. He still hasn't called his wife.  As an afterthought, Niko says to us, "You guys want to come to my wedding?" We say, sure, why not? There's nothing good on TV tonight anyway.  THEN he calls Zhenia to break the news to her. She isn't thrilled, but what can she do? This is all her idea. Now, Zhenia's parents live in Moscow; they're not coming to the wedding. Niko's mother and sister are in NYC at the sister's house. They're not coming, either.

As we drop off Niko at his flat, Zhenia comes tearing down the steps (well, as much as a woman in her 7th month of pregnancy can "tear"). She has to go to the hairdresser. She gives Niko the stink eye, but what can he do? So off she goes -- zoom. Or more accurately, -- waddle.  We Americans meet in a local bar to have a beer and some lunch and wait for the announcement. Did I mention that Niko doesn't know exactly WHERE they're getting married or WHEN? Other than somewhere in Tbilisi today.

Eventually, we get a call that the wedding will be in 10 minutes at the oldest church in Tbilisi, the Basilica of St. Mary. Fortunately and coincidentally, we're IN the bar right next to the church, so we chug our beers and head over for the ceremony.

The ceremony is typical Eastern Orthodox. The women wear scarves (makes you wonder why Zhenia had to get her hair done), and the maid of honor has a piece of material wrapped around her waist to simulate a skirt since she's in pants. The only men wearing ties are the Americans.  Everyone else is in jeans and sweaters.  The church is cold, so the wedding party wears coats. A quick ceremony and they're married.

We congratulate the slightly breathless and annoyed couple, and head back to the bar to celebrate.  Niko tells us that there will be a “small reception party” at a local restaurant sometime tonight.  He’ll call us.

The call comes at 7:30pm:  “Hey, where are you?  We’re celebrating at the Fortuna.  Nothing big, just me and Zhenia and some friends.  Come on down.”  Not wanting to be rude, and because there’s no beer in my fridge, we head to the Fortuna Restaurant for a “small party.”  I must be the stupidest man in Georgia.

His “small party” is a full-blown supra for approximately 30 people.  Which means there’s enough food and alcohol for 60 people.  We certainly don’t want to offend the overwhelmed and slightly inebriated groom and his lovely and flustered bride, so we dive right in to the whole supra scene.  On a school night.  When we have a very important briefing the next day to the US Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense for Eurasia.  I said I must be the stupidest man in Georgia.  We finally escape from the restaurant four hours later with the party still in full flight and the bride sleeping peacefully in an overstuffed chair in the corner covered by a tablecloth. 

Just another typically Georgian event, but one I’m glad I got to experience.  Thanks for reading.

The problem of being a PT god wannabe

I have a karate workout partner who constantly reminds me, “Know who you have in front of you.”  I can follow this tenet in the dojo, on the street, and in the classroom.  Unfortunately, I lose that perceptive when I look in the mirror.  Being in shape has always been a part of my life.  I ran track and played baseball in high school, ran track in college, and then entered the Army where physical training (or PT, as it’s known in the Army) is a part of every duty day.  When I retired from the Army I wanted to stay in shape so I joined a gym, began a serious weight lifting regimen, doubled down on my karate workouts, and (most of the time) tried to watch what I ate.  And, to be a bit vain, I’m in pretty good shape for a 55 year old. 

Unfortunately, when I read workout magazines, I forget I’m 55.  Best I can figure, my ego thinks we’re still 25.  You know what ego is – it’s that ugly little troll that lives under the bridge between reality and self-delusion.  And it’s ego that reads a workout that calls for three sets of 10 reps using this much weight, and says, “We can do that.  No problem.”  And it’s ego that makes us run excitedly to the gym over lunch and push, pull, sweat, and grunt through that workout.  (OK, to be honest, that last set of 10 sometimes turns into 8 reps.  Or 6.  Or even 4.  But that’s it.)  When I’m done, I feel tired and rejuvenated and happy with what I’ve accomplished.  And, even better, ego has been served and retreats back under that bridge.

And then I wake up the next morning.  I roll out of bed, wondering if that creaking is coming from the bed frame or from me.  I walk stiff-legged to the bathroom, holding my arms out in front of me and groaning like the Mummy from old horror movies.  I have to sit to do my business because I can’t bend over far enough to lift the seat.  (Sorry for that mental picture.)  Ego, which the day before was all part of the team and thought lifting all those weights was a good idea, now wants to know what the hell I was thinking. 

I try to wear polo shirts and loafers as much as possible because buttoning shirts, knotting a tie, and tying shoes are a bit more than I can handle in the mornings.  My arms refuse to function properly, whether due to a buildup of lactic acid or simply due to a desire to punish my stupidity, I don’t know.   Fortunately, my coworkers are full of great ways to avoid the inevitable stiffness and soreness the next morning.

The first suggestion was to lie in a tub of 60⁰ water for twenty minutes.  Now how the hell does hypothermia prevent stiffness??  Seems counterintuitive, especially because the stiffness would be the end result of rigor mortis after I have a heart attack from dropping my butt in a tub of 60⁰ water.  Scratch that suggestion.

The next suggestion was to increase the amount of protein in my diet.  The hypothesis is, your body gets sore because you’ve torn muscle fibers during your workout.  By adding extra protein to your diet, the body repairs those fibers more quickly, thereby decreasing the S²  problem.  So, a couple of 12-egg omelets later, garnished with 10-ounce ribeyes on the side and washed down with a protein shake made from Myotein powder, just left me with stiff arteries to go along with my still-stiff muscles.  Scratch that suggestion, too.

Another friend suggested caffeine as a stiffness reducing elixir.  So I started drinking coffee and tea throughout the day.  The result?  Now I’m awake all night so I get to feel that stiffness and soreness even more.  Plus, who can drink coffee or tea without a cookie or 12?  Kinda defeats the purpose of going to the gym in the first place.

I was told to add ginger to my orange juice.  Have you ever tried OJ w/ ginger?  (Which reminds me of the old OJ Simpson joke:  Have you heard OJ has a new webpage address?  It’s slash, slash, backslash, run, escape.)  I was told to drink lots of Gatorade after working out.  I was told to drink more water, flushing the lactic acid out of my body.  That one did work a little bit:  I was up every half hour Mummy-ing my way to the bathroom.  Maybe that little extra work kept the muscles looser; I don’t really know.

Finally, I hit upon the right answer:  It’s not how many reps you lift, it’s how much weight you’re pushing.  So I’ve hit upon the perfect compromise.  I’m now going to focus on lifting 12 ounces six times a day.  It won’t help keep me in shape, but at least I won’t care.

Thanks for reading, and if you have any ideas on how to avoid feeling stiff and sore the day after a workout, let me know.   

Seeing all Armenia has to offer

Last weekend my running buddy, Dave, and I took a day trip to Armenia.  Armenia is a small, landlocked country that borders Iran to its south, Georgia to its north, Turkey to the west, and Azerbaijan, with whom it has troubled relations, to the east.  We went to Armenia to get Dave’s visa renewed.  When we arrived in Georgia in November 2011, each of us got a 365-day work visa.  If you don’t get it renewed after a year you have to pay a $300 fine.  Fortunately, you can renew the visa simply by leaving the country and having your passport re-stamped when you come back in, even if you just leave the country long enough to have lunch.  So, when I came home for R&R in September, my visa was renewed for another 365 days.  Dave, however, has never left the country, so his visa was due to expire the first week in November.  So, we needed to get out of country for a day or so, and Armenia is the closest foreign country, about an hour’s drive from Tbilisi.

I have been lucky enough to have visited 25 countries on five continents.  I have been to countries where I would be happy to live and I’ve been to places that look like Hell opened a branch office (I’m looking at you, Rwanda).  While Armenia isn’t as bad as some places I’ve been, it doesn’t make my “recommended visit” list.  Like all of the countries in the Caucasus, Armenia used to be a Soviet republic.  It looks it.  Georgia has worked very hard to leave that part of their history behind while Armenia seems to have embraced it.  The Armenians still maintain Soviet type memorials (here’s one remembering Armenia’s contribution to the Red Army’s effort in World War II), the signs are still written in both Armenian and Russian (in Georgia the second language is English), and the only vehicles on the road are Russian-made Lada cars, ErAZ vans, and Kamaz trucks, all of which seem to have a maximum speed of 30mph and a propensity to break down every 200 miles.

Our adventure started at the border crossing itself.  We drove to the border post between Armenia and Georgia and waited about 20 minutes before being waved forward.  Which is weird because there were no other cars in line.  Right then we knew were going to see Soviet efficiency at its finest.  And make no mistake – Soviet bureaucracy is about as efficient and effective as Bob Dylan’s tuning fork.  Once we were waved forward, the highly trained clerk flipped through our passports and told us we needed an entrance visa which could be obtained at the small shed to our left. 

After filling out the paperwork and paying our 3000 Drams (about $7.50; 408 DRM = $1) to the visa office, we got back in the vehicle lane to enter.  Another ten minutes later (and we were the ONLY car in line), we were waved forward where the same clerk examined our visa and said we needed to pay the 3000 DRM fee.  I’ve seen this kind of guy before.  He’s barely qualified to run the tilt-a-whirl at the traveling carnival.  He’s the guy on “Wheel of Fortune” who asks, “Is there an F as in pharaoh?”  He thinks “genealogy” is when Barbara Eden visits her ob-gyn.  I told him, no, we had already paid the other guy.  Mr. Clerk shrugged and said, that was his 3000; I need my 3000.  I said, no, we ain’t paying twice.  Clerk shrugs and says, OK, 2000.  I say no again, and he says, OK, OK, 1000 and that’s my final offer.  When I said I wanted to see his commander, he glares and waves our car through (all of this is happening in English, of course, since the Armenian language did not originate on this planet).

So it’s on to the closest “city” – Alaverdi.  Alaverdi has three claims to fame:  1) the Sanahin monastery, built in the 10^th century, part of which is the Queen Tamara bridge constructed in 1100; 2) the largest copper mine and smelting plant in the former USSR and that is still the largest employer in Armenia; and 3) the only functioning sewage treatment plant in Armenia.  It’s hard to figure out which one gives the locals the most pride.

We started by visiting the Queen Tamara bridge.  This bridge, still functional almost 1000 years after it was completed, has a local legend.  There are four stone lions on the bridge; the legend says when Armenia’s hero crosses the bridge the lions will come to life and follow him.  I crossed that damn bridge four times and nothing happened; so much for local legends.  The bridge is also guarded by a stone figure that the locals call the “commissar.”  Why?  No one seems to know, but they insisted we take our picture with it.  Not sure if they’re just not screwing with the tourists; God knows they don’t get many opportunities.

We also visited the Sanahin monastery, accessible only by a cable car.  This cable car is an acrophobic’s nightmare.  It’s steep, slow, rocks back and forth all the way up, and creaks with sounds that make you sure you’re only about a half-second away from plummeting to your death.  It’s run by an operator who has been running this cable car since 1983.  He speaks to us in Russian, which is interpreted into German by another tourist on the car.  So the conversation goes like this:  the operator says something in Russian.  It’s interpreted by another tourist into German.  I translate the German into English for Dave.  Dave asks a question which I have to translate into German for the other tourist who translates it back into Russian.  What’s scary is, the cable car moves so slowly we can do this interaction 5-6 times before we arrive at the top of the mountain.

While we’re riding the car, the operator insists that I take a picture of the sewage treatment plant.  He’s very proud of it and tells us that before the plant was opened, everyone dumped their waste into the river which, naturally, doubles as the source of the town’s drinking water.   We declined his offer to visit the plant which disappointed him a great deal. 

The monastery’s just that – one more monastery of the dozens we’ve seen in Georgia.  Nothing to significant except for the graveyard that abuts the monastery grounds.  There is a tradition, not only in Armenia but in Georgia as well, of intricately carved headstones.  We found one that had a carving of four teenagers, all of whom died on the same day.  Upon closer examination of the headstone, you can see in the upper right corner a depiction of the accident that claimed their lives:  they drove their car over a cliff.  Is that morbid or what?  Showing the cause of death on the headstone itself.  Sheesh.

So, having seen all that Alaverdi can offer in the way of tourist entertainment, we decided to grab a bite to eat and then head home.  We can’t resist eating at the Marley and Che restaurant. 

I have no idea what the relationship is between those two, but you have to admit you’re curious, too, so we went in.  You enter the front of the restaurant, and walk straight through to the back where we’re seated at a table that overlooks an open meat market.  The meat has a strong, musky smell which I have learned by sad experience means the meat has been hanging a while.  After ordering the daily special, we see our waiter cross over to the meat market and ask the butcher to hack off a hunk of meat which, I’m sure, is destined for our table.  We toss a couple thousand Drams on the table and leave quickly, satisfying our hunger with a Snickers bar and Coke from the local market. 

On our way home, we pass the copper mine and plant.  There is not an EPA in the Caucasus, nor are there any pollution controls.  I’m sure this mine and plant has been slowly poisoning the population over the last 50 years.  We fill up our car at the local gas station and head for home, making one more stop at a museum dedicated to a local boy made good, Artem Mikoyan, one of the principal designers of the MiG aircraft, still used by Russia and many other former Soviet clients.  A MiG-21 dual-piloted fighter sits in front of the museum which is, naturally, only open for visitors from 1-2:30pm on Tuesdays. 

That about explains Armenia – it’s dirty, inefficient, and difficult.  It’s also interesting and depressing – interesting if you know you can leave at the end of the day; depressing if you can’t.  Armenia is the fat, ugly, and stupid friend you take with you to bars because you know next to him you look good.  My visit helped me understand the unofficial Georgian state motto – Thank God for Armenia.  As I said, can’t recommend it as a tourist location.  Stay in Tbilisi instead.

Thanks for reading.

It's the bachelor life for me!

Hello again, faithful readers.  I’m back in Tbilisi after a month of R&R at home.  The biggest changes as we start the second year of this contract are the downsizing of the team from 12 to three and the new living arrangements.  I am now living in a one bedroom, one bath apartment in the Vake (vah-kay) neighborhood, one of the more elite sections of town.  I’ve added some pictures of the place at the end of this posting. 

What was fascinating was the process you have to go through here in Georgia to rent an apartment.  Apartment buildings are not owned by a single entity here.  Instead, each apartment is individually owned.  The big problem with that is, since no one “owns” the outside of the apartment, no one takes care of it.  In the past, and I’m talking about in the old Soviet days, the state owned the whole building so they took care of the outside.  Not anymore.  In most cases, literally no one owns the building itself; therefore, the exterior of the building is ignored.  Parking lots are not maintained, the building shell is never painted, graffiti is allowed to bloom on any flat surface of the building, cracks in the steps and sidewalks are someone else’s problem, and the elevator and interior lighting maintenance is left to the kind ministrations of an apartment owner who is simply too tired of stumbling over cracked stairs with no light. 

So here we are, being shown apartments to rent.  As you drive into the parking lot of 68 Irakli Abashidze Street, you’re greeted by a handful of stray dogs and cats rummaging around the dumpster, the parking lot is full of weeds and trash, and the building itself is multicolored with graffiti (who is Salome anyway, and does her mother know what she does in the alley?).  You walk into a darkened hallway after being cautioned by the apartment owner to watch your step, especially where there are steps missing.  The hallway is dark and smells strongly of cigarette smoke, stale beer and urine (I have immediate flashbacks to the Beta fraternity house in college where I lived for two years).  The elevator doesn’t work so we have to walk up four floors of steps in the gloom to apartment #23.  My trepidation is high already and I’m not too eager to see what the apartment looks like after seeing the rest of the building. 

Surprisingly, I walk into a well-lit, bright, semi-clean apartment.  It’s furnished with all the amenities, a hard wood floor, plenty of windows (albeit lousy views – directly into the neighboring apartment buildings), and fairly new furniture.  I express my surprise and satisfaction with the apartment – my first big mistake.  After inspecting all four rooms, I tell Niko, our interpreter and in-country logistics manager, that it’s the best place we’ve seen so far – my second mistake.  Niko and my soon-to-be landlady, Olya -- who speaks pretty good English and fluent Russian, begin negotiating the price of the apartment.  Listed initially at $600 a month (for some strange reason, all major purchases in this country are done in dollars, not Lari, the local currency.  If you want to buy a used car, for instance, you negotiate, and eventually pay, in dollars – not Lari, not Euros, and especially not Rubles.  It’s a bit weird, but typically Georgian.), at my first statement the price went up to $1000 a month and at my second statement to $1200.  Now comes the theater part of the negotiations – my favorite part.  Niko throws his hands in the air and asks why the landlady thinks he’s stupid.  The landlady counters by asking why we’re trying to steal money from her grandchildren.  Niko responds by telling the landlady she’s a terrible Georgian for trying to take advantage of the childlike Americans who don’t know any better (he means me).  Olya fires back with the statement that she’s doing us a favor – she doesn’t have to rent to Americans at all since there are at least 17 people who will rent the apartment today.  Niko tells her to go ahead and call them then since he’s not paying a dime over the listed price of $600 a month.  Olya argues that single Americans only want to rent apartments so they can hold parties, bring in single Georgian girls, and take drugs (how come I never get invited to those apartments?).  Niko’s answer to this is to simply point at me and say, “Look at him.  Single Georgian girls in the apartment?  Really?”  That wins the argument.  I’m not sure if I should be happy that we won, or insulted about how we won, but anyway, I have the apartment at the newly negotiated price of $700 a month plus utilities and a two-month rent deposit for possible damages (despite my looks, she’s still not sure I won’t find some desperate Georgian woman somewhere).  I move in the next day.

It really is a nice apartment.  It’s quiet, convenient, abuts Vake Park (the Central Park of Tbilisi), and the neighborhood has everything I need – corner markets for staples and groceries; excellent produce stands (yes, Debbie, I’m trying to eat more vegetables); a dry cleaner; tons of cafes, restaurants, and clubs; and the main street of Chavchavadze Blvd. is only three blocks away.  It is not, however, the cleanest apartment you’ve ever seen.  Olya, who lived in the apartment for several years before deciding it was time to retire to Spain with her son, is not the most thorough of house cleaners.  I had to hire one of the women who worked for us in the Alamo to come and clean the place after I moved in.  I thought it would take about a half day to get the place spic and span.  It took two days of hard labor and about $100 worth of cleaning supplies to pass inspection.  But it’s home, at least for the next eleven months. 

And, of course, you’re all invited to the house warming party.  You’ll have to bring your own Georgian girls, though.

Thanks for reading.