144 - Roei, Frode, & Dodo (Tbilisi, Georgia)
"When you really want something to happen, the whole universe conspires so that your wish comes true."
— Paulo Coelho
I’M NO LINGUIST, but I thought a few Russian lessons might come in handy out and about in the countryside. The Kremlin “encouraged” member soviets in the U.S.S.R to emphasize the Russian language to foster communication and underscore solidarity. As a result, speakers can travel somewhat seamlessly through the Caucasus region. Though the language fades with each successive generation, you’ll find someone somewhere speaking Russian. I considered learning a bit of Georgian, but it has no application outside Georgia. Also, it’s notoriously difficult to learn given words can have six consecutive consonants. Ummmm, no.
My Tbilisi hostel of choice, Dodo's Homestay, was owned and managed by a 70-year-old woman named, you guessed it, Dodo. Dodo is a common name, but I never got used to referring to someone as “Dodo.” It felt like a little too much like I was calling her a dumbass. Excuse me, Dumbass, how much to have my laundry done? Dumbass, where I could find a Russian tutor? Would I like a coffee? That would be great, Dumbass.
I encountered a brand of toilet paper I dubbed “Soviet Soft” with the texture of burlap. An upgrade is well worth the cash. Otherwise, you risk scraping your rim right off. You’d be better off using a hand or just shitting your pants. The more you know…
If you’d like to check “Watch Young Georgians Make Out And Fondle Each Other” off your list of “Things to Do in Tbilisi,” visit any wooded public park. I suspect if you stray from the trail, you might trip over a few love birds rustling feathers in the bush. Not that I’m complaining. In Georgia, I could stare a female in the eye without feeling like I've committed a lewd act (as opposed to Azerbaijan). Women still insist on marriage before “going all the way,” but you need not cut the cultural oppression with a knife.
By this time in my fandango, my fashion status inched toward critical. My clothes were disintegrating, faded and worn from constant use. I had duct tape on my sandals and water bottle shoulder holster. I screamed cool, resembling an upper-class vagrant. Yes.
I’m no sommelier, but Georgian wine is excellent, so much so, I considered alcoholism as a worthy pursuit. It’s economical, with above average varieties purchased at any supermarket. A lack of western-style preservatives mitigates hangovers. Wine is as Georgian as Georgia itself. Everybody and their mother own small vineyards throughout the land. There’s no shortage of vodka either, with a dizzying number of varieties. And don't forget chacha, a Georgian liquor made from grapes known as “vine vodka.” Homemade variations are ubiquitous. Come to Georgia. Get fucking shitfaced.
No stigmas exist around consumption. I saw a kid no older than 13 throwing down vodka shots with daddy in an upscale restaurant. A family that drinks together… Take the novelty out of drinking at a young age and all the mystery and romance disappears. Pay attention, America.
I deemed myself a middle-tier adventure-soaked wayward wanderer until I met a Danish ex-airline pilot (Frode) and an Israeli (Roei Sadan) at Dodo’s. After numerous exchanges with both, I was more akin to the guy driving a minivan to Disney World while wearing mouse ears and a fanny pack. Frode’s idea of a family vacation was to take his girlfriend and two teenage sons on a two-month camping/kayaking extravaganza in the Canadian wilderness, a place where you find yourself isolated for five days at a time with no chance of rescue. He’d visited all seven continents and 125 countries, including a recent tourist visit to northern Iraq. I asked him if he’d consider adopting me. He declined.
Roei was three years into a four-year, 66,000 km, bicycle expedition across the globe. He began in Alaska, heading to the tip of Patagonia where he hopped a plane to South Africa, made his way to Europe via East Africa, and then onto Asia. He concluded his trip in Australia before returning to Israel. As the only Israeli to attempt such a thing, he was a celebrity back in the homeland and had been featured on news broadcasts worldwide. He made the local news in San Diego when he was robbed at gunpoint in Baja California and then given a lift back to the US by American surfers to replenish his stolen equipment. He somehow persuaded his assailants to leave the bike. He’d been hit by a vehicle on two separate occasions, contracted a deadly form of malaria that would’ve killed him had a missionary not brought him to the doctors in time, and been gifted a beachfront guesthouse on the Mozambique coast by a resort owner. I admit it. I'm a pussy. Hear me purr.
Roei completed his journey and returned home a hero and inspiration to his fellow Israelis. One couldn’t help being infected by his curiosity, gentle nature, and brash optimism. I was distraught to learn of his passing in 2021 after a tour bus struck him near his home in northern Israel. He was only thirty-nine years old. I also discovered he’d narrowly survived a fall on the Himalayan slopes of Stok Kangri (20,187 ft) in 2015. A misstep on the descent sent him tumbling over 1600 ft. By a miraculous coincidence, there were climbers below Roei’s group who dug in with their ice axes, arrested his fall, and provided oxygen until a helicopter arrived. He was medevacked to Israel, where he spent over a month in a coma. Though he left the hospital six months later, he was still recovering from brain damage and extensive physical injuries when he died.
I barely knew the man, and yet I feel a void. He was one of those people who leave a lasting impression even with only a passing acquaintance, someone you root for unconditionally. I had hoped to uncover more tales of derring-do after searching his name on the web. Indeed, he was planning a kayak trip up the west coast of North America at the time of his accident in India, but it wasn’t meant to be. I was glad to have met him and sad to see him go. Rest In Peace, my friend.
