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The Georgians have a myth describing the origins of their country. When the earth was first created, God called all of its peoples to him and proceeded to assign them land. The Georgians, typically, were too busy feasting and drinking to make it on time. When they arrived and discovered that all of the land had been distributed, they told God that they had been busy toasting Him and his creation. God was thoroughly charmed, decided that they were the people best equipped to enjoy life to its fullest, and He gave them the most lovely piece of land that he had been reserving for Himself.

I too, have been seduced by the Georgians, and in all my travels I have never found a people so gregarious, a land so beautiful, or a culture so rich. In Georgia a guest is a "gift from God" and I have been treated to astonishing generosity from people who have painfully little in comparison. But I try to repress my guilt; as the poet Rustaveli wrote, "everything you keep for yourself is lost; everything you give away remains yours forever". This exemplifies the Georgian character, one which can be difficult at times to reconcile with my American sensibilities. But isn't that the reason for travel? To experience a completely different way of life, and thereby to gain knowledge that you never suspected existed?

Such knowledge has encompassed cruelty as well as generosity. Georgia's balmy lowlands, covered in lovingly tended grapevines and gardens, give way in the North to the icy mountains of the Caucasus range. Here, entire villages have been decimated by centuries old vendettas carried so far that small boys are executed before they grow big enough to fire their own guns in revenge for the deaths of their fathers and brothers. Here, Russia has sent tens of thousands of soldiers to be cut to pieces by ferocious shashka swords and desperate suicide bombers, in an intermittent war that has lasted from the 19th century through the present day. Here too, entire reigments of Georgian soldiers, many of whom were forced from their houses by the government, were slaughtered after being given apparent free passage. Mamuka's regiment, the third to be sent out, suffered a 75% casualty rate. Regiments 1 and 2 were completely annihilated.

This I cannot yet begin to understand; I can only be grateful that Mamuka was here in California with me during the war, and that his family and friends were for the most part spared. In Tbilisi now it is difficult to tell that a war even occured; only the increased number of beggars on the streets and the Red Cross personnel drinking lager in the expat bars betrayed the fact that it is the capital of a country devastated by war. President Saakashvili appears nightly on television giving eloquent speeches and is frequently shown on TV holding refugee children. He promises repeatedly that he will not sleep until the last Russian is off Georgian land. Watching this, my Georgian family just sighs heavily. They know that he went to Mallorca on holiday just after the war and that much of the aid money is staying in bureaucrats' pockets. One block from the glossy renovation works in the centre of the capital, refugees are crowding derelict buildings and fearing a wet and cold Tbilisi winter.

Surely the Americans must be aware of all this? I ask. And I'm told by one Georgian friend, "they know Saakashvili is a bastard, but they think he's their bastard. What they don't realize is that he doesn't actually belong to them". So Georgia has taught me disillusionment and deep disappointment as well. Perhaps the most poignant moment being when I saw a group of bedraggled refugees lined up in front of a government run store with a sign stating in Georgian "American Aid Clothing for Sale".

But Georgia will survive, and likely thrive, despite corrupt Western aid, the threat of Russia, and a power mad president. This is a country that has survived centuries of brutal conquest, managing to adopt the best of their rulers whilst fiercely upholding their own traditions.