Thursday, September 29, 2011
Churches Built 400 and 1100 AD
On the way back from visiting the farms around Bezeletti Lake my friend Jubuke showed me ancient churches. The first one built 1100 AD and the other on top of a mountain built in the 400’ds. The last a village church in the small rural village near the lake. Very impressive that I could experience structures of such age and that they were such huge architectual masterpieces. If it were not for my relationship building aside from USDA I would never have experienced the culture of Georgia.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Go’n fish’n
Jabuka expressed with gestures like holding a fishing pole, drawing a lake with a boat in on a snippet of paper and one word from Mia “fish” that he wanted to take me fishing. He wrote 40 km. So happens that I have no plan for Tuesday. The interpreter is translating the training material. I am suggested nothing from my USAID hosts. I say yes. After calling his buddy with a car 7:00 am departure is negotiated (it is now 1:30 am).
Our car is and older quite dusty Mercedes Benz with a cracked windshield. We stop for fuel and it turns out it uses compressed natural gas. We travel north through brush covered hill and then tree covered mountains. The driver is a very careful driver and I like the way he respects the car slowing for rough spots. About 45 minutes out we see some nice farm land and examples of the primitive farms that I expected to visit on this assignment. But now the roads are unpaved – drive more slowly. Then we come to roads so rough they make my field lanes look like public thoroughfares. The car craws in low gear for miles. At a crossroads we met a 35ish man holding two fishing pole then walked to a very primitive house/farm with evidence of all kinds of animal whose droppings were everywhere with a pig tied with a rope. An elderly lady stood quietly as the men dug into small manure pile for worms. Then we all pile into the car drove several slow miles where potholes were big enough to bury a cow and stones scraped the bottom of the Mercedes to a pristine undeveloped lake.
We fished taking turns with the two poles catching only a few three or four inch fish. The fishing was unsuccessful but the day was perfection for me. I got out of the city and got into farming. The man with the fishing poles showed us his place with a lovely garden. The house was primitive (outside toilet) but had two satellite dishes. His wife a teacher was at school. The kids walk many miles to school. Shey showed me corn they were proud of – might yield 40 bushels and compared American hybrid corn with Georgian open pollinated corn which they thought was better. Jabuka showed me his land – 200 square kilometers which is farmed in corn by his fishing buddy. He dreams of building a home there. His asked my opinion of the soil – it is black with topsoil one meter deep. Alfalfa fields in the neighborhood were as good as back home. There is agricultural potential.
This was a perfect day for my day off.
American Peacekeeper
John didn’t dance even though strongly pressured by the Georgians, but especially enjoyed the wine. He began having intense conversations with three women, one the daughter of a big seemingly important bald man. The atmosphere was beginning to seem disconcerting.
My Georgian friend gave me an expression with his eyes that verified my sense of trouble. I pulled John to our table and said “Please sit down”. Now the big man and his daughter were coming to our table, pulled up chairs and sat down with serious expressions. I don’t know a thing about what was expressed in that long Georgian pontification but I knew keenly the way to the door. After some peacekeeping gestures to the Georgian I insistently pressed the Brit toward the door with him exclaiming “What’s wrong”. I don’t know what was wrong, but I do know that the Americans rescued the Brits once again.
The African impresses the Georgians
The dancing was exuberant. Christopher focused on the music and the dancing and soon was drawn in by the sociable and forthcoming nature of the Georgians. The Georgian men at the other table eagerly welcomed the black men (Georgia has almost no black people only students from Africa) and offered their special wine and vodka.
The United Nations Peacekeepers
It was revitalizing to hear English spoken fluently as I entered the basement coffee house. The black man speaking unbroken English trying to communicate with the coffee house owners sat alone at a table drinking Georgian beer. We quickly introduced ourselves as happens when you feel lost among new people and find someone familiar. John Cisse Wa Numbe is a British citizen born in England to parents originally from Congo working for the United Nations as a peacekeeper. He is leading a five day conference of Armenians, Azerbaijanis, and Georgians focused on community development. I learned that they meet in Georgian because of strained relations between Armenia and Azerbaijan.
Our conversation quickly focused on agriculture’s relationship to peacekeeping and food security. Not knowledgeable about agriculture, John became very interested in the USAID program for which I’m working. I explained the agriculture of Georgia and we reflected on the ways to lift it to the next level.
The afternoon sun was dimming and we talked about meeting for dinner which led to a discussion about the Georgian restaurant with traditional Georgian folk music. John wanted to experience the local culture so I asked the my coffee house friends to come along. (We could not function without a Georgian speaking companion) The man Jabuka would go but the wife must stay and take care of business. We agreed to come back at 8:00 and go to the restaurant. John was joined by another United Nations man from Nigeria - Christopher. Four men the Georgian, the Englishman, the African and the American went to dinner.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
The Englishman sings Georgian folk song
The crowd passionately appreciated that song. They greeted Michael affectionatly offered us drinks, made toasts.
They made me dance again
Last night was not with the coffee shop friends. Ia took me shopping for a Georgian doll in the more modern part of the city – the parliament district. We stepped into an English bookshop/tea house. To her surprise there was Michael, husband of her cousin from England – an Englishman in his 50’s married to a Georgian. We had tea and cousin Elisa eventually joined. Quite a happy reunion. Michael enjoys singing in an English choir specializing in Georgian folk songs. An enthusiastic discussion about my folk music experience led to me suggested we all go there that evening. Not suiting at first eventually Michael agreed to go , Elisa had other plans. Then in my inability to remember names especially Georgian names especially since they have their own unusual alphabet we couldn’t determine the address of the restaurant. So Ia and I trekked to the coffee shop and Ia got directions, went to the hotel to get the phone number but no luck. So we got a taxi, went to the place, made reservations, and made arrangements with Michael.
What a special time we had. Much later Elisa joined and both became so delighted to be reacquainted with the traditional music and dance. Great music, great food, and incredible dancing, Georgian folk music. Michael took the mic and sang a patriotic Georgian folk song and the crowd went wild. For a foreigner to sing that song meant so much. I was included just because I was with him.
New MSC Guria District Natanebi Village
The Mechanization Service Center was in the middle of construction. We were greeted with apologies about we don’t have a proper place to meet and I responded with “we’re farmers and we can sit in the field or meet under the trees.” There were nice big evergreen trees along the road bank near the construction site. About 10 men congregated under the trees and began vehemently complaining about the American caterpillar that’s their biggest problem – it eats all crops. Caterlillars were tossed onto the tree stump in the center of the assembly. I said I don’t know about these worms and I don’t have them on my farm.
The farmers were obviously eagerly anticipating the establishment of a machinery center and elaborated how desperate they were in need of mechanization. The owner described how the grant wound buy large tractors and implements and with his own money he would buy some 25 horsepower tractors and smaller machinery for the small farmers.
As typical of no-till discussions it always questioned “Can it work in our soils?” and in this case “This is the sub-tropical region.” I said get a shovel – we’ll take a look.
The shovel was unlike any I’ve seen – a straight blade with a straight handle made from a tree branch. The adjacent field was an abandoned tea crop in transition to brush. I tramped the shovel into the soil but a man insisted on doing the digging for me digging down about 16 inches. I spaded a soil profile then held it on the shovel blade. I described the soil, and based on the soil, theorized the history of the field which seemed to impress the farmers that I knew something of what I was talking about. I said this field has not been tilled for many years and pointed to the layer of dark organic matter in the top few inches. Underneath is clay – good clay as it is bright yellow orange. If it were blue or grey it would indicate poor drainage. Drainage is important for this area as they receive 300 centimeters of rain per year (120 inches). The owner gave an example of his plowing an abandoned field and received good yields for the first two years without fertilizer after which the field required much fertilizer. We discussed how tillage burns organic matter and decreases soil microbes.
About six men were intensely interested in my talk, but off in a side discussion our driver was robustly pontificating with four or five men. Because I don’t understand Georgian and the interpreter was concentrating on translation, I don’t know if that discussion was adding or interfering with our objectives. Whatever it was somewhat distracting.
Just as we were summing up our discussions about no till, a huge Soviet articulated tractor with a three bottom moldboard plow roared up to the MSC. They said it was 150 horsepower. They have been plowing 40 centimeters (16 inches) deep hoping to alleviate compaction.
The big tractor started up with a pony motor and roared off down the road belching smoke, and the owner of the MSC invited us to have some bread and soup with him at a restaurant in town. We arrived in the small town to where a few parking spots were designated reserved parking. As we stopped an elderly man moved the signs for us to park directly in front of the entrance to what appeared a very upscale establishment. Entering, this restaurant was more than elegant – exclusive for the elite. We were seated in a private room with elegant tableware. The dining party consisted of the MSC owner, his assistant, our driver, Ia the interpreter, me and a new person – the toast master. This dinner included many toasts, many courses of elegant and delicious food, veal, pork, fish, many vegetable and mushroom dishes, soft drinks and much wine. The toast master and the MSC owner did many of the excessive wine drinking ceremonies and bid me to participate which I did but only sipping the wine. I said I concede superiority to the Georgians in handling their drink. This was a very fun and delectable two hour lunch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)