Koba hasn't had a car for a couple of years. Tea told me that he used to have one, but he also drank all the time, too. He had several car accidents from driving drunk. After his last accident, he repaired the car, sold it, and quit drinking completely (very unusual for a Georgian man).
About six months ago, he decided to get another car -- transportation is nice to have when living so far out of town. Someone suggested that he get a car online from the U.S. and have it shipped to Georgia. Somehow that is cheaper than buying one here. Or maybe it's not necessarily cheaper, but better cars are available that way. Of course, he could have bought one of the million Russian-produced Ladas that putt and clunk down the road everywhere -- but not Koba. He wanted a Mercedes. Back in October, he found a 2000 Mercedes Kompressor something-or-other through an online auction house in New Jersey, and going on photos alone, he bought the car.
Since two weeks before I arrived in Georgia, his car has been en route to Shamgona. (Tea and I have joked that I should've brought the car with me -- it may have gotten here faster!) Every day Koba followed its progress online. In New Jersey, it was loaded onto a container ship and sent to a port city in Belgium. There it was loaded onto a truck and sent overland to Turkey. In Turkey, it was loaded onto another ship and sent across the Black Sea to the Georgian port city of Poti. The car sat on the ship in port for a couple of weeks before finally being unloaded.
Koba is not a patient man. He is kind, honest, trustworthy, thoughtful, and lots of other good things, but not patient. To have to wait almost four months for his car about drove him nuts -- and he drove Tea nuts about having to wait. He fretted about the time it was taking -- about whether it would arrive safely -- about any possible thing that may go wrong. But the day finally came when his car was on the ground in Poti. That day he dressed in his best and took the bus to Poti to pick up his car. There were a few minor things that had to be fixed (he bought it with some dings in it), so he had to take it straight to the mechanic in Zugdidi to be fixed. That entire week while the car was in the shop, Koba went to town every day to watch over the repairs being made -- and he probably did as much hurrying and supervising of the mechanic's work as he possibly could. Finally it was ready to come to Shamgona.
That was a week ago. Something as big as a new car must be celebrated with a suphra. I'm not real sure how far ahead the car-suphra was planned, but Koba had a goat killed and butchered while I was in Bakuriani (I had no idea this was happening), and when I arrived at the house from my weekend trip last evening, I walked into the middle of the celebration. The living room was full of the dining table surrounded by at least fifteen men -- Koba, an uncle, all of Koba's friends, and our village tamada, Davit (the recent-bride, Lika's grandfather who I danced with at her wedding). I was just getting over the surprise of the hub-bub (should I still be surprised at these things??....no.) Dropping my backpacks on the porch since there was no room to get by the table with them, I edged my way inside and greeted everyone. It was just about dark outside, and the power was still out (it had been out for four days already), so the room was very dim, illuminated only by candlelight. They all wanted to know how my time in Bakuriani was, so I told them what little I could in Georgian -- that it was great -- it was beautiful -- I skied a little -- there was lots of snow -- and it was really cold. That about covered it.
I made my way past everyone and left the man-zone (my friend James's term) for the comfort of the kitchen. Tea made some dinner for me and we talked about our weekends. A little while later, Koba called Tea out of the kitchen and asked her to bring me back to the man-zone (not in those words). They wanted to toast to me, and they wanted Tea to translate. I've had toasts said to me before, but this was different. Davit asked for the horn to be brought -- they had been using regular glasses for wine, but bringing out the horn meant that he wanted this to be a special toast. He began the round of toasts dedicated to me -- for my health, for my profession, for my family, that I would have success in everything I do, that I would find a husband, and that I would stay in Georgia. Everyone at the table took their turn toasting to me, and Tea translated for each one. One of Koba's friends made a comment that the whole village loves me, and thinks of me as one of them. I thanked them all with my own "thanks-toast" (a necessary follow-up to a personal toast), and I drank a glass of wine for them. Koba and Davit were so pleased that I drank a whole glass for them -- they know that I don't usually drink for toasts. I wanted them to know that I respect them and am thankful for their love and support that they show me on a daily basis. Drinking a glass of wine shows this in a way (for Georgians) that words cannot express. Although Tea translated my thanks to them all, downing a glass of wine spoke volumes more than my words.
So, the car has been celebrated -- not quite the same as christening.... but for Koba, I'm sure it's better!
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Familiar faces
What is it about a face that helps us recognize someone we have met? There are so many faces in the world, so many people with slightly different looks, how do we distinguish one from another? Most people have the same features -- two eyes, a nose, a mouth, cheeks, forehead, chin, eyebrows -- how can one stand out over another as one that we have seen before?
Late Friday afternoon when I got off the bus in Khashuri, I wanted to grab a marshutka the rest of the way to Bakuriani. I had been told that there were plenty of them that make the 45-minute run, so I should have no problem catching one. But I didn't count on getting to Khashuri after 6 o'clock p.m. (Most marshutka-runs between towns and villages stop around 5:30.) The bus had let me off at a major intersection, and there were several taxis parked along the curb waiting for customers. They collectively asked me where I wanted to go, and I told them that I was looking for Bakuriani's marshutka. They told me that there weren't any. I wasn't sure I should believe them (but then again, this is Georgia, not Egypt....), so I walked away from the four or five drivers gathered around me and went into the little store in front of me. I asked the ladies running the store where the marshutka stand was for Bakuriani, and they pointed me in the right direction. When I stepped back out of the shop, one of the taxi drivers was waiting for me, the others had left. He reiterated that there were no more marshutka to Bakuriani today. I looked at the time on my phone, searched his face for any sign of a fib, and decided that he was probably telling the truth -- he had kind, honest eyes. So we bargained for the fare, and I got into his cab for the ride into the mountains.
Today, I left Bakuriani at noon to retrace my steps back to Shamgona. I got a marshutka headed to Tbilisi that would drop me in Khashuri where I could flag down one headed to Zugdidi. The driver dropped me at the same intersection where I had gotten off the bus two days earlier. I crossed the main road and positioned myself in a good spot on the sidewalk to be able to read the window-signs of the on-coming buses and marshutkas in time to wave to the right one. Suddenly a taxi pulled up right beside me, rolled down the passenger window, and the driver leaned toward me so I could see him -- it was the driver that had taken me to Bakuriani on Friday! He smiled and waved, asked how I was, how my time in Bakuriani was, and where I was headed. I answered all of his questions, but when I told him that I was headed for Zugdidi, he shook his head -- it's a four-hour drive. We smiled and waved goodbye to each other as he drove away.
How did he recognize me? Out of the thousands of people in that town and out of the hundreds that he comes into contact in the course of a week, how was he able to pick me out of a crowded sidewalk? How did I recognize him immediately? We had a short interaction, and really hadn't talked much during the drive into the mountains, yet we did recognize each other immediately.
There is something nice about a familiar face. A smile always comes to my face when I see someone I know. There is warmth and comfort in a familiar face. There is encouragement and camaraderie there. And when the face that appears is unexpected, the surprise is one of those pleasant ones that keeps me smiling the rest of the day.
How do I know that a face is familiar? How do I recognize someone? I don't know. But I know it's a nice thing to have happen.
Late Friday afternoon when I got off the bus in Khashuri, I wanted to grab a marshutka the rest of the way to Bakuriani. I had been told that there were plenty of them that make the 45-minute run, so I should have no problem catching one. But I didn't count on getting to Khashuri after 6 o'clock p.m. (Most marshutka-runs between towns and villages stop around 5:30.) The bus had let me off at a major intersection, and there were several taxis parked along the curb waiting for customers. They collectively asked me where I wanted to go, and I told them that I was looking for Bakuriani's marshutka. They told me that there weren't any. I wasn't sure I should believe them (but then again, this is Georgia, not Egypt....), so I walked away from the four or five drivers gathered around me and went into the little store in front of me. I asked the ladies running the store where the marshutka stand was for Bakuriani, and they pointed me in the right direction. When I stepped back out of the shop, one of the taxi drivers was waiting for me, the others had left. He reiterated that there were no more marshutka to Bakuriani today. I looked at the time on my phone, searched his face for any sign of a fib, and decided that he was probably telling the truth -- he had kind, honest eyes. So we bargained for the fare, and I got into his cab for the ride into the mountains.
Today, I left Bakuriani at noon to retrace my steps back to Shamgona. I got a marshutka headed to Tbilisi that would drop me in Khashuri where I could flag down one headed to Zugdidi. The driver dropped me at the same intersection where I had gotten off the bus two days earlier. I crossed the main road and positioned myself in a good spot on the sidewalk to be able to read the window-signs of the on-coming buses and marshutkas in time to wave to the right one. Suddenly a taxi pulled up right beside me, rolled down the passenger window, and the driver leaned toward me so I could see him -- it was the driver that had taken me to Bakuriani on Friday! He smiled and waved, asked how I was, how my time in Bakuriani was, and where I was headed. I answered all of his questions, but when I told him that I was headed for Zugdidi, he shook his head -- it's a four-hour drive. We smiled and waved goodbye to each other as he drove away.
How did he recognize me? Out of the thousands of people in that town and out of the hundreds that he comes into contact in the course of a week, how was he able to pick me out of a crowded sidewalk? How did I recognize him immediately? We had a short interaction, and really hadn't talked much during the drive into the mountains, yet we did recognize each other immediately.
There is something nice about a familiar face. A smile always comes to my face when I see someone I know. There is warmth and comfort in a familiar face. There is encouragement and camaraderie there. And when the face that appears is unexpected, the surprise is one of those pleasant ones that keeps me smiling the rest of the day.
How do I know that a face is familiar? How do I recognize someone? I don't know. But I know it's a nice thing to have happen.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
February Fun Weekend
Sometimes trying to do something is just as much of an adventure as actually doing the something I was trying to do. In Georgia, this seems to be the norm.
Toward the end of our extensive travel adventures over Christmas break, James and Katherine and I decided that we needed to plan a weekend excursion every month for the rest of our time here in Georgia. We decided that February Fun Weekend should be a ski weekend since it's still very much winter here, and the skiing is supposed to be great.
There are two main ski areas: Gudauri and Bakuriani. Bakuriani is the most central to all three of us, so we chose that location. We all arrived yesterday, checked into our hotel -- a lovely, alpine-lodge style, all-inclusive establishment, and caught up with what's going on in each other's worlds. (Hard to believe it's been five weeks since our January travels.) After dinner at the hotel, we played a little ping-pong, then bundled up to go out for a beer. We found a nice restaurant with a roaring fireplace and a DJ. We pulled our chairs up close to the fireplace, sipped our Natakhtaris, and watched a bunch of men dance their version of traditional dances while the DJ sang traditional songs. Then the DJ put on a disco tune, and told us that it was for us -- we couldn't very well refuse, so we got up and danced (something I'll do without much prodding, anyway). We took turns grooving out all sorts of cheesy disco moves -- the water sprinkler, the lawn mower, the truck driver, the fisherman -- fun stuff. The DJ put on a slower song and danced with me, while James and Katherine danced, then he played some more traditional tunes that the other Georgian men danced to ..... I decided to join them and do a few of the steps that I've been learning. What fun! They all loved it! They clapped and danced with more vigor and zest.
This morning dawned cold and blustery. After breakfast, we put on as many clothes as possible and walked over to the beginner ski slope to try a few runs and to teach Katherine how to ski. The conditions were rough -- the wind was so strong and frigid, it was almost difficult to stand at some points. After a great beginning, Katherine had had enough, and retired to the lodge while James and I made a few more runs from the top of the hill. It was a really short hill, so it took all of 30 seconds to get to the bottom. We decided to try to find one of the bigger slopes after lunch, and went inside to find Katherine.
After a late lunch, James and I again donned our warmest gear and ventured out to find the better slopes. Being self-relient, we decided to strike out on foot and see what we could find instead of taking a taxi to.....we didn't know exactly where. We headed up the road in the direction that we had been pointed. Thankfully the wind had died down since the morning, and walking was a bit more comfortable, although still a bit tricky on the roads covered with ice and corn-snow. We were soon outside the main part of town and still climbing toward the bowl surrounded by mountains that rose up into the clouds. When we came to a fork in the road, we followed the road that appeared to lead to a group of hotels and a lift that we could see. It was a lift and some hotels, alright, but they were all abandoned or unfinished. There were some people sledding, but the lift had not been in operation for quite some time. There was a for sale sign on it.... weird. We went back down to the fork in the road and went the other way. The road wound its way up through the snowy woods and meadows, continuing to the end of the valley. It was a long walk, but we were very happy to see the lift there operating and lots of people skiing. The slopes looked great. We went into the lodge to get skis, and were told that they closed at 5 -- it was 5:10. We were both a little frustrated, but we had a nice hike, anyway. We walked back down to the town, and caught a cab back to the hotel.
After dinner we thought about going ice skating since the slopes were closed -- there are no lights for night-skiing. Bundled up again, we walked outside..... it had turned frigid again, with wind and blowing snow swirling everywhere. The ice rink was an outdoor rink, and we decided that it was just too blasted cold to enjoy skating. We walked into the nearest "marketi," bought a bottle of good wine, took it back the hotel, and had a lovely evening sharing some glasses of red and some good conversation.
Our February Fun Weekend was not quite what we had planned, but it was fun nonetheless. We did ski....for about an hour, and it was well-worth the $3.50 the ski rentals and lift cost us! I doubt that we will make it back here again, but we experienced Bakuriani in our own way. Sometimes adventures are all about going with the flow.
Toward the end of our extensive travel adventures over Christmas break, James and Katherine and I decided that we needed to plan a weekend excursion every month for the rest of our time here in Georgia. We decided that February Fun Weekend should be a ski weekend since it's still very much winter here, and the skiing is supposed to be great.
 |
| The view from our hotel balcony.....and a few icicles. |
 |
| Me, James, and Katherine at the slope |
 |
| Disused ski lift |
After dinner we thought about going ice skating since the slopes were closed -- there are no lights for night-skiing. Bundled up again, we walked outside..... it had turned frigid again, with wind and blowing snow swirling everywhere. The ice rink was an outdoor rink, and we decided that it was just too blasted cold to enjoy skating. We walked into the nearest "marketi," bought a bottle of good wine, took it back the hotel, and had a lovely evening sharing some glasses of red and some good conversation.
Our February Fun Weekend was not quite what we had planned, but it was fun nonetheless. We did ski....for about an hour, and it was well-worth the $3.50 the ski rentals and lift cost us! I doubt that we will make it back here again, but we experienced Bakuriani in our own way. Sometimes adventures are all about going with the flow.
Friday, February 25, 2011
A beautiful gift
When I woke up this morning, for the first time in months, my nose wasn't cold. The air is finally beginning to warm up in Shamgona. It was nice to have a sweater on in my room instead of a coat and still be comfortable. I have no doubt that the cold weather will make itself known at least one more time this year, but I am sure that Spring is just around the corner.
On my way into school today, two of my lovely fourth graders skipped into the gate just ahead of me. They made me smile -- their braids and backpacks flying, eyes dancing as they smiled, and a blur of yellow in each of their hands. When Lika and I walked into their classroom for our first period class, the girls handed each of us a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils -- gorgeous!! Their smiles were as bright as the flowers as they beamed with delight at giving us these beautiful gifts. I took them to the house and put them in water, then grabbed my bags that I had packed last night to head out to the mountains for a weekend of skiing.....
My flowers will hold the promise of Spring for me until I get back....
Thursday, February 24, 2011
On the mend
Last evening I felt like I had emerged from a dense fog. I finally felt well enough to get out of bed, and I took a shower, put on clean clothes, and did some laundry. It was so good to be functional again.
My alarm clock woke me this morning for the first time all week. I hit the snooze twice, then got up, thankful that I felt well enough to be vertical. After lying around out of commission for so long, my limbs were happy to be moving at any speed -- today's speed was "slow." But that was good enough for me! I walked to school slowly, looking around at everything as if it were all brand new. There were some new daffodils that were open (they made me smile), and I saw the first road-kill I've seen on our village road -- a pretty little bird was squished (that made me sad). I wondered how in the world it got hit when no car can possibly drive on this road faster than the bird could fly. Sad, sad.
At school, everyone asked how I was doing -- they were so glad to have me back in classes. I learned a new Georgian word: "uqetesa!" ("I'm better!"), and I said it over and over as every one of my colleagues I hadn't seen yet asked how I was feeling. One of the gym teachers -- a little old Russian man who is very odd -- said that I shouldn't get sick since I am an athlete. I told him that I'm not Superman -- that brought lots of laughs from the ladies.
We still have no heat in the school building. In two of the classrooms I was in today, I could feel the cold start to creep in through any crevice between layers of clothing. I don't usually hold to the idea that being cold makes one sick.....but here, it's a different kind of cold! I think that it may not make one sick, but certainly helps the virus get a hold on a person. I am so glad that the weather will be warming up very soon, otherwise I think I would end up sick again.
It was good to be with my students again today. Their energy gives me energy. Although I was tired by the end of the day, I felt enlivened. I'm sure that I caught whatever I had from one of the 90-some cherubs that I see over the course of a week, but it's alright -- I like them all, and I would rather be at school with sniffly students than at home!
Tomorrow is already Friday -- amazing. This week flew by, and after my first period class tomorrow I am heading to the mountains to meet up with my two favorite travel-companions, James and Katherine. We are meeting in a town called Bakuriani to spend the weekend skiing. Thanks to a very quick recovery, I will be able to participate in our planned "Fun February Weekend." After having such a great time together over our winter break travels, we decided to get together at least one weekend each month to do something together -- and February has lots of snow, so we are going to ski.
Don't worry, I'll bundle-up!
My alarm clock woke me this morning for the first time all week. I hit the snooze twice, then got up, thankful that I felt well enough to be vertical. After lying around out of commission for so long, my limbs were happy to be moving at any speed -- today's speed was "slow." But that was good enough for me! I walked to school slowly, looking around at everything as if it were all brand new. There were some new daffodils that were open (they made me smile), and I saw the first road-kill I've seen on our village road -- a pretty little bird was squished (that made me sad). I wondered how in the world it got hit when no car can possibly drive on this road faster than the bird could fly. Sad, sad.
At school, everyone asked how I was doing -- they were so glad to have me back in classes. I learned a new Georgian word: "uqetesa!" ("I'm better!"), and I said it over and over as every one of my colleagues I hadn't seen yet asked how I was feeling. One of the gym teachers -- a little old Russian man who is very odd -- said that I shouldn't get sick since I am an athlete. I told him that I'm not Superman -- that brought lots of laughs from the ladies.
We still have no heat in the school building. In two of the classrooms I was in today, I could feel the cold start to creep in through any crevice between layers of clothing. I don't usually hold to the idea that being cold makes one sick.....but here, it's a different kind of cold! I think that it may not make one sick, but certainly helps the virus get a hold on a person. I am so glad that the weather will be warming up very soon, otherwise I think I would end up sick again.
It was good to be with my students again today. Their energy gives me energy. Although I was tired by the end of the day, I felt enlivened. I'm sure that I caught whatever I had from one of the 90-some cherubs that I see over the course of a week, but it's alright -- I like them all, and I would rather be at school with sniffly students than at home!
Tomorrow is already Friday -- amazing. This week flew by, and after my first period class tomorrow I am heading to the mountains to meet up with my two favorite travel-companions, James and Katherine. We are meeting in a town called Bakuriani to spend the weekend skiing. Thanks to a very quick recovery, I will be able to participate in our planned "Fun February Weekend." After having such a great time together over our winter break travels, we decided to get together at least one weekend each month to do something together -- and February has lots of snow, so we are going to ski.
Don't worry, I'll bundle-up!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
We can learn something from everyone
I knew I was in trouble when the first slurred words out of his mouth were, "Oooo, it's a girl!"
Yes, he was talking about me.
In a post a few days ago, I briefly mentioned the idiocy that I put up with at the wedding party I attended last weekend, and that I had promised not to write about it in my blog. Actually, I'm pretty sure my words to him were, "I won't blog about it tonight..... how's that?" (That was in answer to his whining about not wanting anyone to know what an idiot he was.) Well, it's not "tonight" anymore, is it?? But to protect the idiot, I mean innocent, "he" shall remain nameless. There are lessons to be explored in our exchange .....as much as I would like to never think about him again.
I had seen him before I met him -- in the receiving line at the wedding, Tea pointed him out to me. She recognized that he was not Georgian, although he was standing at the toasting table, with a glass of wine raised to the bride and groom. At the very first glance, my instincts yelled, "Run away! Run away!"
Tea said, "He is American. He is already drunk." (She didn't mean those two descriptions to be linked -- just that both were true!)
"Yes, he is -- on both counts," was my reply.
"You do not want to meet him." What would normally be a question for a less-astute Georgian, was a statement of fact as Tea read my expression.
"No, I don't." I shook my head. She smiled and shook her head in agreement. However, not 15 minutes later, some well-meaning Georgians who hadn't heard my screaming instincts nor read my earlier disgusted expression plopped him down across the table from me.
So many reasons to not like him: drunk, doughy, and self-righteous being the three that rise to the top. Any of the three are enough to steer me clear of a person, but combine all three in one individual, and the combination is almost unbearable. (I should probably define "doughy" before moving on. Someone who is doughy is soft in every way possible -- physically, mentally, spiritually. And by "soft," I don't mean "sensitive." I mean soft from not being used -- spoiled -- untested -- flaccid -- pithy -- without real substance. He was all of the above.) I would never approach someone like this on my own, but I had no choice but to engage him in conversation -- what I hoped would be a short conversation.
It wasn't.
When he was first set down across from me, Tea caught my eye with an expression of, "Yikes, I guess you're meeting anyway." My mind was still ready in defense-mode against his initial statement of excitement at my being female. I tried my best not to appear repulsed, but it was really difficult especially when within less than one minute of sitting down, he grabbed a napkin and covered his mouth to stifle a wave of nausea. I was sure he was going to throw up right there, and I was poised to run away -- literally! My face was frozen in a mixture of disgust, surprise, and disbelief, but it didn't seem to faze him. The first 20 minutes of conversation revolved like a broken record around the same questions: Where was I from? How long had I been in Georgia? Where did I live? What school did I teach in? I did my best to be nice as I answered his constant questions over and over. (Repeating myself is one of my two biggest pet peeves.) When he wasn't asking me these same questions he made the same three statements over and over: How he wasn't drunk, he had already had X glasses of wine (the number kept changing, ranging from 6-10), and how all Georgians are crazy. The last statement annoyed me every time he said it. I answered him as briefly as possible, hoping he would just go away, but that was not to be. He was at my table for the night.
At some point I decided that a new line of questions would be more interesting than replaying the same ones over and over, so I threw out a new one and asked where he had gone to school. He told me, and then volleyed the question back to me. I told him I had gone to a small college in Florida for my undergrad.....and was just about to talk about my grad school, but he interrupted me wanting to know where in Florida I'd gone.... I told him Pensacola. That didn't satisfy him -- he needed to know the name of the school. Finally I told him that I had graduated from Pensacola Christian College (something I don't tell many people for a variety of reasons, one of them being exactly what was to happen next). I could practically hear the glory-bells ringing in his doughy brain -- a kindred spirit! Oh, joy! And suddenly everything became about being a Christian. It was all "us against them." He kept saying over and over that I was the only person in the entire country who understood him. Ugh. Hardly!
Over the course of the next few hours, between my leaving the table to dance with various Georgians and his leaving the table to find the restroom, the conversation quickly deteriorated. I grew annoyed at his insistence that he was not drunk, "As a Christian, it isn't right to be drunk, so I'm not drunk. I'm a Christian." Not exactly logical reasoning, but it must have made sense to him; he kept saying it over and over. I also grew annoyed at his cultural insensitivity -- his "us against them" mentality. I tried to tell him that cultural differences are just that: different. There is nothing wrong with the way Georgians do things -- it's Georgia, not the U.S. He was really stuck on the way the men drink "all the time." He didn't think it was right, but there he was, drunk. I told him that while he needs to adapt to his new culture, he shouldn't compromise his own convictions and beliefs. He didn't understand what I was talking about. Doughy. Then he started hitting on me. He put his arm around me which I shrugged off, then he put his pudgy hand on my knee. When I perfunctorily threw it off, he apologized profusely, but then proceeded to tell me that he wanted to sleep with me -- in less savory words, I might add. I told him that he should probably find somewhere else to sit when what I really wanted to do was smash his doughy face down onto the table. But what really pissed me off was a statement he made -- or rather, whined to the effect of, "what are we even doing here anyway" -- WE???? I let him have it on that one, "Don't project your own insecurities onto ME -- I know what I'M doing here." That finally shut him up.
I know that it was futile to try to have any kind of intelligent conversation with someone who was drunk. But I didn't have much of a choice. I could have completely ignored him from the start, but that would have been mean, and I'm just not a mean person. I didn't overreact because I knew that much of the idiocy that came out of his mouth was due to too much wine. In giving him a ridiculous amount of latitude, I could tolerate an awful lot of his inane babbling. But the cultural insensitivity, insecurity, and completely UN-Christian behavior was just too much.
I do consider myself to be a Christian -- or should I say, I try each day to be as Christian as I can -- in the true sense of the word, actually acting like Christ did. That's the only reason I didn't smash this guy's face into the table .....well, that and I'm not a violent person. I keep wondering how someone so hung up on "Christian" could be so far off the mark? Does he have any idea how negative his actions are? How far from Christ-like he is in thought, action, word, everything? Sad. If he is really a Christian, why was my first instinct at the first sight of him to turn and run away? That doesn't sound like the kind of influence a Christian should have on others. On the contrary -- I want people to be drawn to me because of what they see in me. I want them to see love, patience, kindness, goodness, generosity, peace -- the kind of attributes that a Christian should exemplify -- with actions more than words. I know that if my actions are not loving and tolerant, it doesn't matter what I say, no one will hear it. Only through right actions will any words be heard. Someone can talk all they want to (like this guy did, all night long), but it will only be a lot of empty words if there are no actions to back them up. There was no message of hope or love or tolerance in anything this guy said -- only criticism and division and self-righteousness.
I can learn from everyone -- from some I learn what to do, and from others, what not to do.
And what are others learning from me?
Yes, he was talking about me.
In a post a few days ago, I briefly mentioned the idiocy that I put up with at the wedding party I attended last weekend, and that I had promised not to write about it in my blog. Actually, I'm pretty sure my words to him were, "I won't blog about it tonight..... how's that?" (That was in answer to his whining about not wanting anyone to know what an idiot he was.) Well, it's not "tonight" anymore, is it?? But to protect the idiot, I mean innocent, "he" shall remain nameless. There are lessons to be explored in our exchange .....as much as I would like to never think about him again.
I had seen him before I met him -- in the receiving line at the wedding, Tea pointed him out to me. She recognized that he was not Georgian, although he was standing at the toasting table, with a glass of wine raised to the bride and groom. At the very first glance, my instincts yelled, "Run away! Run away!"
Tea said, "He is American. He is already drunk." (She didn't mean those two descriptions to be linked -- just that both were true!)
"Yes, he is -- on both counts," was my reply.
"You do not want to meet him." What would normally be a question for a less-astute Georgian, was a statement of fact as Tea read my expression.
"No, I don't." I shook my head. She smiled and shook her head in agreement. However, not 15 minutes later, some well-meaning Georgians who hadn't heard my screaming instincts nor read my earlier disgusted expression plopped him down across the table from me.
So many reasons to not like him: drunk, doughy, and self-righteous being the three that rise to the top. Any of the three are enough to steer me clear of a person, but combine all three in one individual, and the combination is almost unbearable. (I should probably define "doughy" before moving on. Someone who is doughy is soft in every way possible -- physically, mentally, spiritually. And by "soft," I don't mean "sensitive." I mean soft from not being used -- spoiled -- untested -- flaccid -- pithy -- without real substance. He was all of the above.) I would never approach someone like this on my own, but I had no choice but to engage him in conversation -- what I hoped would be a short conversation.
It wasn't.
When he was first set down across from me, Tea caught my eye with an expression of, "Yikes, I guess you're meeting anyway." My mind was still ready in defense-mode against his initial statement of excitement at my being female. I tried my best not to appear repulsed, but it was really difficult especially when within less than one minute of sitting down, he grabbed a napkin and covered his mouth to stifle a wave of nausea. I was sure he was going to throw up right there, and I was poised to run away -- literally! My face was frozen in a mixture of disgust, surprise, and disbelief, but it didn't seem to faze him. The first 20 minutes of conversation revolved like a broken record around the same questions: Where was I from? How long had I been in Georgia? Where did I live? What school did I teach in? I did my best to be nice as I answered his constant questions over and over. (Repeating myself is one of my two biggest pet peeves.) When he wasn't asking me these same questions he made the same three statements over and over: How he wasn't drunk, he had already had X glasses of wine (the number kept changing, ranging from 6-10), and how all Georgians are crazy. The last statement annoyed me every time he said it. I answered him as briefly as possible, hoping he would just go away, but that was not to be. He was at my table for the night.
At some point I decided that a new line of questions would be more interesting than replaying the same ones over and over, so I threw out a new one and asked where he had gone to school. He told me, and then volleyed the question back to me. I told him I had gone to a small college in Florida for my undergrad.....and was just about to talk about my grad school, but he interrupted me wanting to know where in Florida I'd gone.... I told him Pensacola. That didn't satisfy him -- he needed to know the name of the school. Finally I told him that I had graduated from Pensacola Christian College (something I don't tell many people for a variety of reasons, one of them being exactly what was to happen next). I could practically hear the glory-bells ringing in his doughy brain -- a kindred spirit! Oh, joy! And suddenly everything became about being a Christian. It was all "us against them." He kept saying over and over that I was the only person in the entire country who understood him. Ugh. Hardly!
Over the course of the next few hours, between my leaving the table to dance with various Georgians and his leaving the table to find the restroom, the conversation quickly deteriorated. I grew annoyed at his insistence that he was not drunk, "As a Christian, it isn't right to be drunk, so I'm not drunk. I'm a Christian." Not exactly logical reasoning, but it must have made sense to him; he kept saying it over and over. I also grew annoyed at his cultural insensitivity -- his "us against them" mentality. I tried to tell him that cultural differences are just that: different. There is nothing wrong with the way Georgians do things -- it's Georgia, not the U.S. He was really stuck on the way the men drink "all the time." He didn't think it was right, but there he was, drunk. I told him that while he needs to adapt to his new culture, he shouldn't compromise his own convictions and beliefs. He didn't understand what I was talking about. Doughy. Then he started hitting on me. He put his arm around me which I shrugged off, then he put his pudgy hand on my knee. When I perfunctorily threw it off, he apologized profusely, but then proceeded to tell me that he wanted to sleep with me -- in less savory words, I might add. I told him that he should probably find somewhere else to sit when what I really wanted to do was smash his doughy face down onto the table. But what really pissed me off was a statement he made -- or rather, whined to the effect of, "what are we even doing here anyway" -- WE???? I let him have it on that one, "Don't project your own insecurities onto ME -- I know what I'M doing here." That finally shut him up.
I know that it was futile to try to have any kind of intelligent conversation with someone who was drunk. But I didn't have much of a choice. I could have completely ignored him from the start, but that would have been mean, and I'm just not a mean person. I didn't overreact because I knew that much of the idiocy that came out of his mouth was due to too much wine. In giving him a ridiculous amount of latitude, I could tolerate an awful lot of his inane babbling. But the cultural insensitivity, insecurity, and completely UN-Christian behavior was just too much.
I do consider myself to be a Christian -- or should I say, I try each day to be as Christian as I can -- in the true sense of the word, actually acting like Christ did. That's the only reason I didn't smash this guy's face into the table .....well, that and I'm not a violent person. I keep wondering how someone so hung up on "Christian" could be so far off the mark? Does he have any idea how negative his actions are? How far from Christ-like he is in thought, action, word, everything? Sad. If he is really a Christian, why was my first instinct at the first sight of him to turn and run away? That doesn't sound like the kind of influence a Christian should have on others. On the contrary -- I want people to be drawn to me because of what they see in me. I want them to see love, patience, kindness, goodness, generosity, peace -- the kind of attributes that a Christian should exemplify -- with actions more than words. I know that if my actions are not loving and tolerant, it doesn't matter what I say, no one will hear it. Only through right actions will any words be heard. Someone can talk all they want to (like this guy did, all night long), but it will only be a lot of empty words if there are no actions to back them up. There was no message of hope or love or tolerance in anything this guy said -- only criticism and division and self-righteousness.
I can learn from everyone -- from some I learn what to do, and from others, what not to do.
And what are others learning from me?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Two awesome sentences.....
"Here were encyclopedic sentences that left subject and predicate completely out of shouting distance. Parenthetic elements were unexplainably inserted inside other parenthetic elements, equally unexplainably inserted into sentences whose relevance to the preceding sentences in the reader's mind was dead and buried and decayed long before the arrival of the period." (Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance)
I reread these sentences four or five times. The first time I read them, I didn't really notice what I was reading until I got to the end of the statement -- then the words, "long before the arrival of the period" caught my attention, so I went back and read them more closely, then again, and then again. Wow! What a great description of something that is poorly written!
Pirsig has a way of using high-faluting words right next to base language, and the juxtaposition of the two not only brings an element of intrigue to the statement, but also lends a comedic tone to what he's writing. In these sentences, he was describing a doctoral committee chairman's writing (a man he did not like). There is no doubt that the chairman liked his own writing -- anything that can be identified as "encyclopedic" denotes a sense of ego in whatever he chronicled. He wanted everyone to know just how smart he was. Pirsig's choice of words to criticize the chairman's style just kills me! He doesn't use just "dead and buried," but goes all the way to "decayed" in describing the reader's attitude. That has to be one of the nastiest descriptions possible.....and funniest (especially if you picture some decrepit ancient mouldering away, holding forth at the pen all the while.)
I love the way Pirsig personifies the period. I can imagine the periods that the chairman wrangled down onto the page with a flourish of great satisfaction after a string of said parenthetical elements -- periods that fought like wild horses against being forever corralled onto the page. Maybe that's why his sentences were so lengthy -- he just couldn't get ahold of those elusive periods. Or maybe not. Maybe the periods were only too glad to finally have a place to call home. These periods had hung in the air, ready to mark his finished thought; only to be shooed away a time or two or three or four while the chairman added and added and added unnecessary information. Poor things were exhausted.
There are times when I think my writing is a little like this description -- I tend to put a lot of parenthetical statements into my descriptions of things, but I think my subjects and verbs have a closer relationship than those being described. Leaving them "out of shouting distance" is just plain wrong when it comes to writing. Now and then when I edit what I have written before posting it, I reevaluate some of my parenthetical statements. Sometimes I change them, making them into new sentences so they don't interrupt the flow of thought..... and so my subjects and verbs can communicate with each other. Other times I leave them alone so the tempo of my thoughts is readable (at least somewhat.... my mind runs at a rate beyond my typing ability) -- after all, this is a blog, not a book!
I do love a well-written sentence. Maybe that's why I am in a phase of reading some of the classics and Pulitzer Prize winners that I have neglected over the years. Oftentimes, modern writers opt for cookie-cutter, assembly-line sentences and structures instead of pouring over just the right word or laboring over some complexity in thought-development that will (in the long run) say much more than a "subject/verb/object/prepositional phrase" repetition. The second sentence that I quoted from Pirsig is one such sentence. Read it a few times. Look at it. Study the tempo and the flow and the quality of it. It's exquisite. And it only has one comma in it!
Oh, to write with such wit, efficiency, and humor! Well done, Pirsig.
I reread these sentences four or five times. The first time I read them, I didn't really notice what I was reading until I got to the end of the statement -- then the words, "long before the arrival of the period" caught my attention, so I went back and read them more closely, then again, and then again. Wow! What a great description of something that is poorly written!
Pirsig has a way of using high-faluting words right next to base language, and the juxtaposition of the two not only brings an element of intrigue to the statement, but also lends a comedic tone to what he's writing. In these sentences, he was describing a doctoral committee chairman's writing (a man he did not like). There is no doubt that the chairman liked his own writing -- anything that can be identified as "encyclopedic" denotes a sense of ego in whatever he chronicled. He wanted everyone to know just how smart he was. Pirsig's choice of words to criticize the chairman's style just kills me! He doesn't use just "dead and buried," but goes all the way to "decayed" in describing the reader's attitude. That has to be one of the nastiest descriptions possible.....and funniest (especially if you picture some decrepit ancient mouldering away, holding forth at the pen all the while.)
I love the way Pirsig personifies the period. I can imagine the periods that the chairman wrangled down onto the page with a flourish of great satisfaction after a string of said parenthetical elements -- periods that fought like wild horses against being forever corralled onto the page. Maybe that's why his sentences were so lengthy -- he just couldn't get ahold of those elusive periods. Or maybe not. Maybe the periods were only too glad to finally have a place to call home. These periods had hung in the air, ready to mark his finished thought; only to be shooed away a time or two or three or four while the chairman added and added and added unnecessary information. Poor things were exhausted.
There are times when I think my writing is a little like this description -- I tend to put a lot of parenthetical statements into my descriptions of things, but I think my subjects and verbs have a closer relationship than those being described. Leaving them "out of shouting distance" is just plain wrong when it comes to writing. Now and then when I edit what I have written before posting it, I reevaluate some of my parenthetical statements. Sometimes I change them, making them into new sentences so they don't interrupt the flow of thought..... and so my subjects and verbs can communicate with each other. Other times I leave them alone so the tempo of my thoughts is readable (at least somewhat.... my mind runs at a rate beyond my typing ability) -- after all, this is a blog, not a book!
I do love a well-written sentence. Maybe that's why I am in a phase of reading some of the classics and Pulitzer Prize winners that I have neglected over the years. Oftentimes, modern writers opt for cookie-cutter, assembly-line sentences and structures instead of pouring over just the right word or laboring over some complexity in thought-development that will (in the long run) say much more than a "subject/verb/object/prepositional phrase" repetition. The second sentence that I quoted from Pirsig is one such sentence. Read it a few times. Look at it. Study the tempo and the flow and the quality of it. It's exquisite. And it only has one comma in it!
Oh, to write with such wit, efficiency, and humor! Well done, Pirsig.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sick day
Even though it was my day for a long run yesterday, I didn't run. I could feel myself giving in to the virus that has been working hard at getting me down for several days. Hoping to fend it off again, I rested as much as possible yesterday.....to no avail.
When my alarm when off this morning, I knew there was no way I was going to school. My entire body ached. The skin on my shoulders, arms, and upper back hurt. My joints hurt. Every time I moved my eyes, pain shot through my head from both sides behind my ears. I had a dry, wheezing cough that originated from somewhere deep in my chest. And although curled up under a mountain of blankets, I was shivering. Great.
I got out of bed only because I really had to use the bathroom. When I went into the lower house, Tea took one look at me and raised her eyebrows -- I told her what she could already see -- that I felt like crap. She suggested that I call my other co-teacher (who I teach with on Mondays) to let her know that I wouldn't be at school. I did that, crawled back into bed, and fell back to sleep.
Feverish sleep is never restful. Alternating between fits of shivers and sweats keeps the muscles tensed. At one moment I felt like I was burning up and threw off my pile of covers, letting the cold air wash over me. But the relief was short-lived. Within a minute, the beads of sweat chilled on my skin leaving me shivering with cold. If I pulled the covers over me again, the trapped heat from my body immediately brought on more sweat. Trying to find a happy-medium of being covered/not covered, I pulled only one blanket over half of my body leaving one arm and leg hanging over the edge of the bed. That worked. I was able to sleep for a few more hours.
Around noon I awoke and decided my already raging headache would only worsen if I didn't have some food and caffeine. I stumbled into the lower house in my sweats and hoodie, hood pulled low over my eyes to block the light and to keep the chilly rain off my head. Tea set me at the table and gave me some hot soup. I breathed in the steam and the heat (from both temperature and the ground red chilies in the soup) eased my aching sinuses. My regular cup of coffee (that is by no means great, being instant-brew) tasted horribly metallic, but I drank it anyway. Tea took my temperature to confirm that, yes, I did have a fever, and gave me a big, chalky pill to take for it -- then another kind for my headache. She went outside and picked some leaves off the peikho tree, made some tea for me drink, then brought my pillow and a blanket from the upper house to the sofa so I could lay down to try to sleep some more.
Teetering on the edge of consciousness in a feverish stupor brings all kinds of thoughts swirling through the brain. For awhile I found myself fixated on the soft, fuzziness of the blanket I was wrapped in. With my eyes closed, the fleecy touch felt softer than any blanket in history. (Maybe one of those pills Tea gave me was E..... Ha!) Then after floating along in a gray fog for a bit (or maybe I looked outside.... or maybe not -- my eyes were still closed), I started thinking of random words to describe a fever, trying each one out to see if it fit how I felt: "hot," "blazing," "roiling," "torrid," "firey," "swelter," "delirium." The word "delirium" took root and hung out for awhile, slowly growing on my mind's theater-screen until the word, stamped in big, rounded-block letters of shimmery pink and gray and gold filled the screen.
Yeah, I know -- weird. (Maybe the tea was peyote, not peikho.)
All day long I've had fits of fever - no fever - fever - no fever. The medicine staves it off for a little while, then the fever takes over. I'm hoping that with a good night's sleep, I'll be better tomorrow. We'll see.
When my alarm when off this morning, I knew there was no way I was going to school. My entire body ached. The skin on my shoulders, arms, and upper back hurt. My joints hurt. Every time I moved my eyes, pain shot through my head from both sides behind my ears. I had a dry, wheezing cough that originated from somewhere deep in my chest. And although curled up under a mountain of blankets, I was shivering. Great.
I got out of bed only because I really had to use the bathroom. When I went into the lower house, Tea took one look at me and raised her eyebrows -- I told her what she could already see -- that I felt like crap. She suggested that I call my other co-teacher (who I teach with on Mondays) to let her know that I wouldn't be at school. I did that, crawled back into bed, and fell back to sleep.
Feverish sleep is never restful. Alternating between fits of shivers and sweats keeps the muscles tensed. At one moment I felt like I was burning up and threw off my pile of covers, letting the cold air wash over me. But the relief was short-lived. Within a minute, the beads of sweat chilled on my skin leaving me shivering with cold. If I pulled the covers over me again, the trapped heat from my body immediately brought on more sweat. Trying to find a happy-medium of being covered/not covered, I pulled only one blanket over half of my body leaving one arm and leg hanging over the edge of the bed. That worked. I was able to sleep for a few more hours.
Around noon I awoke and decided my already raging headache would only worsen if I didn't have some food and caffeine. I stumbled into the lower house in my sweats and hoodie, hood pulled low over my eyes to block the light and to keep the chilly rain off my head. Tea set me at the table and gave me some hot soup. I breathed in the steam and the heat (from both temperature and the ground red chilies in the soup) eased my aching sinuses. My regular cup of coffee (that is by no means great, being instant-brew) tasted horribly metallic, but I drank it anyway. Tea took my temperature to confirm that, yes, I did have a fever, and gave me a big, chalky pill to take for it -- then another kind for my headache. She went outside and picked some leaves off the peikho tree, made some tea for me drink, then brought my pillow and a blanket from the upper house to the sofa so I could lay down to try to sleep some more.
Teetering on the edge of consciousness in a feverish stupor brings all kinds of thoughts swirling through the brain. For awhile I found myself fixated on the soft, fuzziness of the blanket I was wrapped in. With my eyes closed, the fleecy touch felt softer than any blanket in history. (Maybe one of those pills Tea gave me was E..... Ha!) Then after floating along in a gray fog for a bit (or maybe I looked outside.... or maybe not -- my eyes were still closed), I started thinking of random words to describe a fever, trying each one out to see if it fit how I felt: "hot," "blazing," "roiling," "torrid," "firey," "swelter," "delirium." The word "delirium" took root and hung out for awhile, slowly growing on my mind's theater-screen until the word, stamped in big, rounded-block letters of shimmery pink and gray and gold filled the screen.
Yeah, I know -- weird. (Maybe the tea was peyote, not peikho.)
All day long I've had fits of fever - no fever - fever - no fever. The medicine staves it off for a little while, then the fever takes over. I'm hoping that with a good night's sleep, I'll be better tomorrow. We'll see.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
One crazy, crazy night
What do you get when you combine 300 guests, loads of food on long, skinny tables set up inside a massive tent, singing DJs, gallons of home-brewed wine drunk out of horns (real and crystal), and a bride and groom? -- a Georgian-village wedding.
Last night was my first Georgian wedding experience, and what an experience it was. Fun, crazy, bizarre -- an adventure not to be forgotten.
At five o'clock I was ready to leave the house. Tea, Koba, Koba's brother-in-law Valeri, Tea's sister Teona, and I piled into a car and drove to the bride's parents' house (Koba's aunt and uncle, which makes the bride his cousin). Some other relatives were there waiting to leave for the "qampania" -- wedding party. Although most of the family was milling around outside, coats on, we were ushered into the dining room to sit down and eat. I was a bit baffled -- Koba led me into the room saying, "Sit, sit down, Stepani. Eat, eat!" When he saw the look on my face (it was frozen, mouth agape in complete incredulity), he threw his back and laughed. Tea followed me in, and we all sat down. I finally found some words through the veils of confusion blocking my ability to verbalize anything, and stammered, "Aren't we going to a huge party right now? Why are we eating?" Koba said (through Tea's translation) that it would be three or four hours yet before we would eat, so I should eat a little something. So I ate a little something. Knowing how much food would be at the party and knowing that Georgians want a guest to be eating all the time, I ate a very little. About ten minutes later, someone whirled into the room to announce that it was time to go. We abandoned our plates and the table full of food, piled into three different cars, and jostled our way out of the village.
The wedding party was for Lika -- a girl I have written about a few times in previous posts. She is the university student who married her boyfriend without telling her parents. (I wrote a bit about Tea's disapproval of her getting married so young...and while still in school -- it's one of those "traditions" that Tea wants to see change.) Anyway, the party was to be at her husband's family's house in another village on the other side of Zugdidi. Our three-car caravan drove to the other side of town and parked on the side of the road in front of some houses. I asked Tea if we were there -- I didn't think we were because there weren't very many cars around -- we weren't. Tea said that we had to wait for some others to arrive. So we waited...... and waited...... and waited....... and waited. I don't know exactly how long we waited, but we left Shamgona in broad-daylight, and it was dark for awhile while we waited some more -- it was at least two hours. The men had gotten out of the cars and stood in their normal cigarette-smoking circles, leaving Tea, Teona, and I in the car. We passed the time talking and laughing. I completely cracked Tea up a few times -- I love it when she laughs so hard! She claps her hands together once, doubles over, and laughs away.
(A long story short: one of the things we laughed about so hard had to do with a former student who is related to Koba whose family came to the wedding -- This student's mother pulled her 11th-grade daughter out of our school because Tea and three other teachers didn't curve her grades up, but gave her the grades she earned. The mother was furious and put her daughter in another school. Tea said that she didn't want to have any confrontation at the wedding. I put my fists up and told Tea that I had her back. She howled away at that one -- then I added that Teona could take off her boots and use the stiletto-heels to defend her -- and I thought Tea would fall out of the car, she was laughing so hard!)
It was well after 8 o'clock when the men piled back into the cars and we drove the rest of the way to the wedding party. The party took place inside a large tent erected in the front yard of the groom's house. When we arrived, all the guests from the bride's side were standing around outside the front gate waiting for the bride and groom to arrive -- the bride's guests do not enter the party before she does. (Tea and I sat in the car to wait.... again.) About 15 minutes later, they drove up, horn blaring. They went into the house, and everyone followed, forming a receiving line to congratulate the couple. Once the receiving line was finished, we went into the tent to start the party.
The tent was filled with long, narrow tables that ran the length of the space. Narrow benches lined either side of the tables. The normal spread of suphra-fare was piled high on the tables -- it was an unbelievable amount of food, as usual. There was a small table set up on a dais at the front of the tent for the wedding party. To one side, the DJs were already hard at working blaring traditional tunes. In the space between the head table and the lines of tables for the guests, a thick layer of sawdust had been spread on top of the soggy ground for the dance floor. When all the guests were seated in the tent, the bride and groom made their entrance accompanied by traditional dancers. They took a couple of laps around the tent before settling into their seats while the dancers performed a few dances. In one of the dances, a glass of wine was set on the ground and one of the men picked it up with his mouth, stood up without spilling it, tipped it up, and drank it -- all without touching it with his hands. After the bride and groom had their dance, the floor was open to everyone.
Neither Tea nor Koba dance, but several of Koba's cousins and brothers-in-law do; so they kept me up on the floor for just about every song. Valeri is a good dancer, so I danced with him as often as I could. Interspersed with songs sung by the DJs (who were not very good), they played all kinds of music, traditional and contemporary, slow and fast. One that everyone here loves is Shakira's "Time for Africa" -- at every party I've been to, everyone cheers anytime that song starts. The dance floor was full all night long with people of every age. Once I almost tripped over a little tyke who was weaving through everyone's legs while trying to do one of the traditional steps. During a couple of songs, Valeri, Koba's cousins, the bride's grandfather, and I formed a circle holding hands raised into the air and danced in a circle while we each took turns dancing in the middle. Valeri did some crazy Russian-kicking dance. The grandfather grooved away with his feet planted firmly on the ground. Needless to say, it was a good time.
There were some really bizarre things that took place, but I told the terribly drunk fundamentalist Christian American teacher (who swore that he wasn't drunk after who-knows-how-many glasses of wine) when he was seated next to me since we are both American, that I wouldn't write about his ridiculous behavior and un-invited advances in my blog. Let's just say that I much preferred the company of the Georgian men to his immature, insecure, can't-hold-his-liquor, ramblings.
At 2 a.m., Tea pulled me off the dance floor to go home. (I was glad, because some of the young men were starting to fight over who was going to dance with me. The wine was starting to take over....) One of Koba's cousins had gotten into a fight with some of the other young men, and Koba wanted to remove him from the situation. When everyone was finally loaded into the cars, we drove back to Shamgona. The cousin who was in our car had drunk quite a lot, and all the way back to the house, he rambled about sports, music, and politics in a cyclical fashion. First he named basketball players and their teams for awhile, then he moved on to singers and song titles, then countries and leaders.....then back to the basketball players. Tea and I were entertained -- we said that it was like switching between radio stations.... but the DJs were all a bit tipsy.
I was so glad to crawl into my warm bed at 2:45. I decided to wait until morning to clean all the sawdust off my boots!
Last night was my first Georgian wedding experience, and what an experience it was. Fun, crazy, bizarre -- an adventure not to be forgotten.
At five o'clock I was ready to leave the house. Tea, Koba, Koba's brother-in-law Valeri, Tea's sister Teona, and I piled into a car and drove to the bride's parents' house (Koba's aunt and uncle, which makes the bride his cousin). Some other relatives were there waiting to leave for the "qampania" -- wedding party. Although most of the family was milling around outside, coats on, we were ushered into the dining room to sit down and eat. I was a bit baffled -- Koba led me into the room saying, "Sit, sit down, Stepani. Eat, eat!" When he saw the look on my face (it was frozen, mouth agape in complete incredulity), he threw his back and laughed. Tea followed me in, and we all sat down. I finally found some words through the veils of confusion blocking my ability to verbalize anything, and stammered, "Aren't we going to a huge party right now? Why are we eating?" Koba said (through Tea's translation) that it would be three or four hours yet before we would eat, so I should eat a little something. So I ate a little something. Knowing how much food would be at the party and knowing that Georgians want a guest to be eating all the time, I ate a very little. About ten minutes later, someone whirled into the room to announce that it was time to go. We abandoned our plates and the table full of food, piled into three different cars, and jostled our way out of the village.
 |
| The bride, Lika with one of Koba's cousins, Giorgi and me (and, no, Georgians don't usually smile in pictures) |
 |
| Tea and me (Tea does smile in pictures!) |
It was well after 8 o'clock when the men piled back into the cars and we drove the rest of the way to the wedding party. The party took place inside a large tent erected in the front yard of the groom's house. When we arrived, all the guests from the bride's side were standing around outside the front gate waiting for the bride and groom to arrive -- the bride's guests do not enter the party before she does. (Tea and I sat in the car to wait.... again.) About 15 minutes later, they drove up, horn blaring. They went into the house, and everyone followed, forming a receiving line to congratulate the couple. Once the receiving line was finished, we went into the tent to start the party.
 |
| About 1/100th of the food on the tables |
 |
| Koba's brother-in-law, Valeri and me |
There were some really bizarre things that took place, but I told the terribly drunk fundamentalist Christian American teacher (who swore that he wasn't drunk after who-knows-how-many glasses of wine) when he was seated next to me since we are both American, that I wouldn't write about his ridiculous behavior and un-invited advances in my blog. Let's just say that I much preferred the company of the Georgian men to his immature, insecure, can't-hold-his-liquor, ramblings.
At 2 a.m., Tea pulled me off the dance floor to go home. (I was glad, because some of the young men were starting to fight over who was going to dance with me. The wine was starting to take over....) One of Koba's cousins had gotten into a fight with some of the other young men, and Koba wanted to remove him from the situation. When everyone was finally loaded into the cars, we drove back to Shamgona. The cousin who was in our car had drunk quite a lot, and all the way back to the house, he rambled about sports, music, and politics in a cyclical fashion. First he named basketball players and their teams for awhile, then he moved on to singers and song titles, then countries and leaders.....then back to the basketball players. Tea and I were entertained -- we said that it was like switching between radio stations.... but the DJs were all a bit tipsy.
I was so glad to crawl into my warm bed at 2:45. I decided to wait until morning to clean all the sawdust off my boots!
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Shhhhh -- doesn't nothing sound nice?
There are only two things that I can hear right now: the fire in the stove and the wind outside. It's amazing! The amount of noise that usually fills the house is sometimes more than I can take: two televisions in close proximity playing two different channels, a game being played on the computer right next to one of the televisions, two children and their incessant noise, "our grandmother" making as much noise as the children telling them to be quiet, the cats meowing at "our grandmother" for food, sounds of food preparation or clean-up, Koba and his friends playing cards, and some animal outside making itself known. There is almost never moment of quiet in the lower house.
Until today.
For various reasons, Tea shipped everyone out first thing this morning. When I got up at 9:15, Koba had already left for town (the car he bought was supposed to be ready today -- a long story I'll tell in a later post). Tea was just putting coats on the kids to send them via marshutka to her mother's house. She had also sent her brother-in-law who is visiting for the weekend over to his other sister-in-law's house. When I sat down at the kitchen table for some coffee, I heard something wonderful.....nothing! Don't get me wrong -- I love being around people. I thrive on interaction with others. But I also like to have a bit of quiet in the day, especially in the morning. Living in Georgia does not allow for much quietness -- not at school (most certainly) and not at home. Listening to the water in the tea pot simmer away was a great way to begin this day.
A quiet day allows for good conversation. All day long Tea and I have talked off an on (uninterrupted, wonder of wonders!) about school, our students and how to teach them better, the family, the English language, computer skills, and anything else that popped into our minds. And we have had long minutes of shared silence, each of us enveloped in our own thoughts or focused on our own work -- ironing, washing clothes, making bread, working on our computers, or reading. We are such similar people with similar personalities and we value similar things -- like peace and quiet. Several times today we commented to each other how nice it was to have a quiet house for a few hours.
"Silence is golden." It's also detoxing! The quiet of today cleaned out the built-up noise that has cluttered my mind and ears for months. Quiet moments today, precious and rare, were a fleeting gift that will make it possible for me to stand the next round of relentless noise that is going to start in about an hour when I go with Tea and Koba to a wedding reception....... oh, never mind that -- it is going to start now -- Koba, the kids, and brother-in-law all just got home, and one of "our grandmother's friends came to visit. There's nothing like listening to two old ladies who don't hear each other very well yell their conversation.
Until the next quiet day..... maybe in a few months!
Until today.
For various reasons, Tea shipped everyone out first thing this morning. When I got up at 9:15, Koba had already left for town (the car he bought was supposed to be ready today -- a long story I'll tell in a later post). Tea was just putting coats on the kids to send them via marshutka to her mother's house. She had also sent her brother-in-law who is visiting for the weekend over to his other sister-in-law's house. When I sat down at the kitchen table for some coffee, I heard something wonderful.....nothing! Don't get me wrong -- I love being around people. I thrive on interaction with others. But I also like to have a bit of quiet in the day, especially in the morning. Living in Georgia does not allow for much quietness -- not at school (most certainly) and not at home. Listening to the water in the tea pot simmer away was a great way to begin this day.
A quiet day allows for good conversation. All day long Tea and I have talked off an on (uninterrupted, wonder of wonders!) about school, our students and how to teach them better, the family, the English language, computer skills, and anything else that popped into our minds. And we have had long minutes of shared silence, each of us enveloped in our own thoughts or focused on our own work -- ironing, washing clothes, making bread, working on our computers, or reading. We are such similar people with similar personalities and we value similar things -- like peace and quiet. Several times today we commented to each other how nice it was to have a quiet house for a few hours.
"Silence is golden." It's also detoxing! The quiet of today cleaned out the built-up noise that has cluttered my mind and ears for months. Quiet moments today, precious and rare, were a fleeting gift that will make it possible for me to stand the next round of relentless noise that is going to start in about an hour when I go with Tea and Koba to a wedding reception....... oh, never mind that -- it is going to start now -- Koba, the kids, and brother-in-law all just got home, and one of "our grandmother's friends came to visit. There's nothing like listening to two old ladies who don't hear each other very well yell their conversation.
Until the next quiet day..... maybe in a few months!
Friday, February 18, 2011
Random things from today
I prefer my posts to have a point. Rambling on about unimportant happenings is as interesting for me to write as it is for my readers to read -- not very! Unfortunately there will be no well-developed point today -- I'm feeling unfocused and uncreative because....and this brings me to my first random thing......I think I may be getting sick.
Since Christmas break, there has been a virus going around the village. There have been days when fewer than half of my students have been at school. One week about a quarter of the students were in attendance. Thus far, I have dodged the germs. I'm not really sure how what with getting sneezed on, coughed on, hugged by runny-nosed little ones, and drinking from the community water jug at the house. Teaching and living with elementary-aged students makes it impossible to not share germs.
Well, it was another frigid day at school followed by another 3-hour dance lesson in just-as-frigid a dance hall. I went for a quick 30-minute run after dance, and while running, I noticed that my chest felt a little tight. As the evening has gone on, my throat and head have begun hurting ever so slightly. But the kicker is that achy-ick that settles between my shoulder blades when I am coming down with something. I am praying that it is nothing....
I've written previously about how loud the Georgians are -- how that, if I didn't know better, I would think that they are always angry and yelling at each other. Well, today I witnessed angry Georgians. Wow.
The second, smaller school that is on the other side of the village is closing. And not by choice. The Ministry of Education is closing the school because there are only about 50 students there. Two of the classes were closed this week, and the word is, that the rest will close at the end of this school year. Most of the students will be coming to my school -- we already have the four fifth-graders whose class was cut. But the teachers from that school are going to be out of jobs. They want to come to my school and teach -- and they told my school director today that they should be given some of my colleagues' teaching hours. That demand was not met with the generosity that is usually characteristic of my colleagues. Let me just say that there was a lot of shouting, pointed fingers emphasizing each word in vehement disagreement.
It is quite a problem -- the government, by closing that school, is putting about 20 teachers out of work. The added students at my school are not going to make it necessary to split the grades into sections. So if the out-of-work teachers get some hours at my school, they will be taking hours away from my colleagues. Having a job in Georgia is a coveted position -- and although a teacher's salary is minimal, it is still money.
My school director sat for a while with her head in her hands. I wouldn't want to be in her position.
The hand-sweaters I knitted may be one of my best ideas. I wear them all the time, and they work great. Taking them off is the worst -- especially if I am somewhere cold. Oh, wait -- that's everywhere but the kitchen!
Tea and I were sitting in the kitchen this evening having tea and talking. She was sitting close to the door that goes into the living room, and her chair was holding the door partly shut. "Our grandmother" wanted to go through the door, and because of her girth, was having a hard time. She almost tipped Tea over as she squeezed past. Tea said, "Uuuuf - how large is her backside!!!" We laughed and laughed -- I thought Tea would really fall out of her chair from laughing so hard!
And here's a little tip for the day: if you have cats, don't leave fried fish on the table unattended....that is, if you want to eat the fish.
Since Christmas break, there has been a virus going around the village. There have been days when fewer than half of my students have been at school. One week about a quarter of the students were in attendance. Thus far, I have dodged the germs. I'm not really sure how what with getting sneezed on, coughed on, hugged by runny-nosed little ones, and drinking from the community water jug at the house. Teaching and living with elementary-aged students makes it impossible to not share germs.
Well, it was another frigid day at school followed by another 3-hour dance lesson in just-as-frigid a dance hall. I went for a quick 30-minute run after dance, and while running, I noticed that my chest felt a little tight. As the evening has gone on, my throat and head have begun hurting ever so slightly. But the kicker is that achy-ick that settles between my shoulder blades when I am coming down with something. I am praying that it is nothing....
____________________________________________________
The second, smaller school that is on the other side of the village is closing. And not by choice. The Ministry of Education is closing the school because there are only about 50 students there. Two of the classes were closed this week, and the word is, that the rest will close at the end of this school year. Most of the students will be coming to my school -- we already have the four fifth-graders whose class was cut. But the teachers from that school are going to be out of jobs. They want to come to my school and teach -- and they told my school director today that they should be given some of my colleagues' teaching hours. That demand was not met with the generosity that is usually characteristic of my colleagues. Let me just say that there was a lot of shouting, pointed fingers emphasizing each word in vehement disagreement.
It is quite a problem -- the government, by closing that school, is putting about 20 teachers out of work. The added students at my school are not going to make it necessary to split the grades into sections. So if the out-of-work teachers get some hours at my school, they will be taking hours away from my colleagues. Having a job in Georgia is a coveted position -- and although a teacher's salary is minimal, it is still money.
My school director sat for a while with her head in her hands. I wouldn't want to be in her position.
____________________________________________________
____________________________________________________
Tea and I were sitting in the kitchen this evening having tea and talking. She was sitting close to the door that goes into the living room, and her chair was holding the door partly shut. "Our grandmother" wanted to go through the door, and because of her girth, was having a hard time. She almost tipped Tea over as she squeezed past. Tea said, "Uuuuf - how large is her backside!!!" We laughed and laughed -- I thought Tea would really fall out of her chair from laughing so hard!
____________________________________________________
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Warmth
"Warmth" is one of those words that sounds like what it is. There is something about the pronunciation of the word that, when I say it, makes me feel like I have just wrapped a cozy scarf around my neck or settled down into a cushy comforter (boy, do I miss my down comforter....). "Warmth" -- maybe it's because there are no harsh sounds in the word -- all the sounds are soft and round. It is more breath than sound. The English "r" has one of the softest sounds in the language. Move that sound into the hum of the "m" and you have a fluffy kitten glissading underneath the wood stove to bask in its rumbling warmth.
Warmth is all but non-existent in a Shamgona-winter; it is something that only exists in the kitchens of the village right now. Right now there is no heat at school. Since our school is a public school, the government provides funding for heat each month. The person who sends out the heat-money must be sick or on vacation because our school has not yet received the money to pay for February's heat. In a building made of cold, hard-surfaced materials, the freezing night temperatures seep in and take hold while the sun is on the U.S.-side of the world; and with nothing to chase away the biting chill, conducting school is like trying to hold classes in a meat-locker. Because it is so cold, our class-times have been cut from 45 minutes down to 35 with five-minute breaks between instead of 10. That's about all the cold we can stand before retreating back to our respective kitchens for some much-needed warmth.
Warmth found me for a minute at school today. The sun made an appreciated appearance this morning, and the way the school building is situated, the teachers' room gets the full force of the sun's rays whenever it shines. After fourth period today in a particularly frigid room, I walked into the teachers' room to switch my books for the next class. As I headed to the opposite side of the room, I stepped into the sunny spot that the huge windows allow. Warmth! I stopped mid-step, closed my eyes in the brightness, and let the rays of sunlight envelope my chilled being. I felt like a cat -- they always find the sun-spots in which to curl up. I stayed there for a minute, soaking up the warmth.
Warmth -- it is something that I am fortunate to enjoy even though it is cold out, thanks to some of things I brought with me: knee-high Smartwool socks, shearling boots, an EMS down coat (which I almost didn't bring), Smartwool shirts, and wool sweaters. I also brought my 20-degree sleeping bag with me. I had been warm enough sleeping underneath three heavy blankets until the temperatures dropped below freezing. Now I wriggle down into my Kelty bag and pull the three covers up overtop -- including my head. I always feel like I am in my own personal cocoon in there. The headband, hat, scarf, and hand-warmers (which I have dubbed, "hand-sweaters") that I have knitted keep my head and hands comfortable enough when outside the kitchen -- necessities in the form of manufactured warmth.
Warmth is felt not only physically, but also abstractly. I am touched by it on a daily basis by my students' enthusiasm to share their answers to my questions, by the squeezes from my colleagues who communicate readily through loving touches, by Koba's gifts of mandarins, kiwis, or chocolates that appear out of his coat pockets, and by Tea's ever-present hospitality and friendship. Even though it is blasted cold outside, the warm-heartedness of the people I live and work with helps to stave off some of winter's chill. I may be able to see my breath indoors, but I am surrounded by lots and lots of.....
Warmth.
Warmth is all but non-existent in a Shamgona-winter; it is something that only exists in the kitchens of the village right now. Right now there is no heat at school. Since our school is a public school, the government provides funding for heat each month. The person who sends out the heat-money must be sick or on vacation because our school has not yet received the money to pay for February's heat. In a building made of cold, hard-surfaced materials, the freezing night temperatures seep in and take hold while the sun is on the U.S.-side of the world; and with nothing to chase away the biting chill, conducting school is like trying to hold classes in a meat-locker. Because it is so cold, our class-times have been cut from 45 minutes down to 35 with five-minute breaks between instead of 10. That's about all the cold we can stand before retreating back to our respective kitchens for some much-needed warmth.
Warmth found me for a minute at school today. The sun made an appreciated appearance this morning, and the way the school building is situated, the teachers' room gets the full force of the sun's rays whenever it shines. After fourth period today in a particularly frigid room, I walked into the teachers' room to switch my books for the next class. As I headed to the opposite side of the room, I stepped into the sunny spot that the huge windows allow. Warmth! I stopped mid-step, closed my eyes in the brightness, and let the rays of sunlight envelope my chilled being. I felt like a cat -- they always find the sun-spots in which to curl up. I stayed there for a minute, soaking up the warmth.
Warmth -- it is something that I am fortunate to enjoy even though it is cold out, thanks to some of things I brought with me: knee-high Smartwool socks, shearling boots, an EMS down coat (which I almost didn't bring), Smartwool shirts, and wool sweaters. I also brought my 20-degree sleeping bag with me. I had been warm enough sleeping underneath three heavy blankets until the temperatures dropped below freezing. Now I wriggle down into my Kelty bag and pull the three covers up overtop -- including my head. I always feel like I am in my own personal cocoon in there. The headband, hat, scarf, and hand-warmers (which I have dubbed, "hand-sweaters") that I have knitted keep my head and hands comfortable enough when outside the kitchen -- necessities in the form of manufactured warmth.
Warmth is felt not only physically, but also abstractly. I am touched by it on a daily basis by my students' enthusiasm to share their answers to my questions, by the squeezes from my colleagues who communicate readily through loving touches, by Koba's gifts of mandarins, kiwis, or chocolates that appear out of his coat pockets, and by Tea's ever-present hospitality and friendship. Even though it is blasted cold outside, the warm-heartedness of the people I live and work with helps to stave off some of winter's chill. I may be able to see my breath indoors, but I am surrounded by lots and lots of.....
Warmth.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
"Just".....
.....is just a word, right?
Teaching my own language makes me more aware of the words I choose to use. Word choice and word placement can change the meaning of what I want to say.
While walking home from school today, the thought popped into my head, "Just another school-day done." I started analyzing that statement and had some interesting thoughts about the word, "just." I know it has several meanings, but I am exploring just the qualitative aspect of the word and its meanings: "only" and "a moment ago." (And I just used it that way.....oh, there it is again...)
The difference in the meaning depends on its placement in the sentence. I'll give an example: (This example is a pair of statements that I've said many times -- not as an example of using this word, but just because they were true.)
"I just ran fifteen miles today."
or....
"I ran just fifteen miles today."
Unless I was talking to a fellow distance runner, these statements always brought incredulous looks and a continued conversation geared toward my sanity....or lack thereof. Anyway, the first sentence means that I ran not long ago -- the second one, that I ran only fifteen miles. (When training for a marathon, fifteen miles becomes "only" after running in the 20's!) But notice how putting the word in one place makes it mean one thing, and moving it just one word over completely changes the meaning of the statement.
Okay, enough of the grammar lesson.
I use the word "just" an awful lot, probably too much. Most nights when I write my blog post, I delete that word at least once when I edit what I have written before hitting the "Publish Post" button. It's way overused, and often unnecessary. And as I thought about the word and what it means, I realized that it does more than give me a synonym for "only." It belies an underlying bent in thinking about the person/object/idea that is being talked about. I think that it can show an unappreciative attitude toward or diminish the importance of the thing being qualified. Not good.
If I am teaching someone to do something -- anything from swimming the crawl stroke to pronouncing the word, "birthday" correctly (a very difficult word for Georgians) -- and I say, "Just do this.....;" that has a condescending tone to it. I am putting myself above them by belittling their inability to do whatever it is I can do that they cannot. Insinuating that the action is easy furthers this abstract distance I have created between us. That opens the door for the learner to feel inadequate, to lose faith in themselves, and before long, to shut down.
Back to the statement that got me thinking about this word: "Just another school-day done." My underlying attitude here could be that I am not looking at this day as the gift that it is, but a drudgery to be endured. Each day is a gift, and how I choose to view it will affect how I choose to use it. When I had this thought, I wasn't meaning to discount the day's importance -- yet after thinking about this statement in conjunction with my deeply-rooted desire to go Home, I know that that thought grew out of my wish for time to pass more quickly. "Just four months to go..." is another thought that I have to push out of my mind. Marking time and wishing it away will make me miss the blessing of today.
So no more using the word, "just" in negative-qualifying statement......just positive ones!
Teaching my own language makes me more aware of the words I choose to use. Word choice and word placement can change the meaning of what I want to say.
While walking home from school today, the thought popped into my head, "Just another school-day done." I started analyzing that statement and had some interesting thoughts about the word, "just." I know it has several meanings, but I am exploring just the qualitative aspect of the word and its meanings: "only" and "a moment ago." (And I just used it that way.....oh, there it is again...)
The difference in the meaning depends on its placement in the sentence. I'll give an example: (This example is a pair of statements that I've said many times -- not as an example of using this word, but just because they were true.)
"I just ran fifteen miles today."
or....
"I ran just fifteen miles today."
Unless I was talking to a fellow distance runner, these statements always brought incredulous looks and a continued conversation geared toward my sanity....or lack thereof. Anyway, the first sentence means that I ran not long ago -- the second one, that I ran only fifteen miles. (When training for a marathon, fifteen miles becomes "only" after running in the 20's!) But notice how putting the word in one place makes it mean one thing, and moving it just one word over completely changes the meaning of the statement.
Okay, enough of the grammar lesson.
I use the word "just" an awful lot, probably too much. Most nights when I write my blog post, I delete that word at least once when I edit what I have written before hitting the "Publish Post" button. It's way overused, and often unnecessary. And as I thought about the word and what it means, I realized that it does more than give me a synonym for "only." It belies an underlying bent in thinking about the person/object/idea that is being talked about. I think that it can show an unappreciative attitude toward or diminish the importance of the thing being qualified. Not good.
If I am teaching someone to do something -- anything from swimming the crawl stroke to pronouncing the word, "birthday" correctly (a very difficult word for Georgians) -- and I say, "Just do this.....;" that has a condescending tone to it. I am putting myself above them by belittling their inability to do whatever it is I can do that they cannot. Insinuating that the action is easy furthers this abstract distance I have created between us. That opens the door for the learner to feel inadequate, to lose faith in themselves, and before long, to shut down.
Back to the statement that got me thinking about this word: "Just another school-day done." My underlying attitude here could be that I am not looking at this day as the gift that it is, but a drudgery to be endured. Each day is a gift, and how I choose to view it will affect how I choose to use it. When I had this thought, I wasn't meaning to discount the day's importance -- yet after thinking about this statement in conjunction with my deeply-rooted desire to go Home, I know that that thought grew out of my wish for time to pass more quickly. "Just four months to go..." is another thought that I have to push out of my mind. Marking time and wishing it away will make me miss the blessing of today.
So no more using the word, "just" in negative-qualifying statement......just positive ones!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Scrambled brain
No, this isn't what I had for supper tonight -- but it is what I have inside my head right now after a three-hour dance lesson.
One of the things that I have been having a hard time getting down is the spin that is common in many of the step combinations in Georgian dance. Elene and I practice almost every day that we don't have lessons with our teacher, but I have not been able to get the steps nor timing down for the spin. I keep ending up on my heels three feet to the side instead of staying on my toes in one place. The spin goes smoothly and quickly and looks so beautiful....well, it's supposed to! My spin has been jerky, slow, and clumsy. Until today. My teacher broke down the step combination in a way that I finally understood, and then we practiced it over and over and over and over and over and over and then some more. There were several moments when I had to stop because of dizziness -- then I paid attention to spotting correctly so I could go on.
There are so many things to think about when doing a spin. Spotting is one of the most important -- it's how dancers can spin and spin without getting dizzy. The head has to go from one shoulder to the other as quickly as possible to look for the front wall before the body finishes making its revolution. That's not too hard. It just takes a little getting used to the fast motion (this is where my brain gets scrambled). The weight transfer from one foot to the other is what kept tripping me up (almost literally sometimes). The toe that gets spun on is not the toe that has the weight on it to begin with -- that's what I kept missing. If spinning to the right, the right toe begins pointed out to the side with the weight on the left, but the weight shifts to the right as the body rotates directly over the right toe and the left steps to the other side of the right toe as close to it as possible, then moves around again to where it started. When the body has rotated fully, the weight remains on the right toe with the left pointed out to the side, ready to receive the weight for the left-hand spin. And back and forth and back and forth, right then left, right then left. Then add the arm motions -- thankfully they follow the motion of the spin -- out to the sides to start, then wrapping around the front and back to follow the flow of the rotation. The tricky part is to keep the hands in the proper position -- "Georgian hands" -- graceful and fluid.
Try keeping track of all of that in the matter of a fraction of a second. It was not easy while I had to think about each piece. The first (many) times I tried this, I got my head looking the correct direction to start and the right toe out to the side, but then I'd get lost. My brain couldn't keep up with what was supposed to happen next. But now I can do the motion without having to think about it (tacit knowledge -- one of the things that I loved studying in my graduate work. If you don't know what it is, read up on it -- fascinating stuff!) My muscles have learned what to do, the sequence of motions now feels fluid, and so my spin actually works -- I can stay on my toes (mostly) and end where I began (usually). After at least an hour of only spinning, I should hope I have it down! Not thinking about the process makes it easier to do (that's tacit knowledge).
Language has also been scrambled in my brain lately. I keep mixing up Georgian and Spanish when I try speaking Georgian. My brain knows that I am not speaking English, and it defaults to Spanish. I have actually put Spanish words into sentences that I try to say in Georgian. Mixing English and Spanish is called "Spanglish" -- so what is mixing Georgian and Spanish? Georgnish? or maybe Spangian? Whatever it's called, it's in my brain mashed up with English. Keeping the three straight is getting to be a bit difficult. I am still thinking in English, but when trying to decode the Georgian that I hear, my thinking moves to Spanish -- that's not helpful! So the words going in my ears are one language, and they don't match the ones in the "language files" in my head.....except for a few in the very small file labeled, "ქართული" ("Georgian," in Georgian). My synapses are not used to checking that file for information -- they keep trying to look up the necessary language information in the "Español" file. They are going to get themselves fired soon if they keep this up.
It would be really nice if learning to speak a language were as easy as learning to dance.
And now, scrambled brain and tired feet are telling my confused synapses that it is time to sleep....
One of the things that I have been having a hard time getting down is the spin that is common in many of the step combinations in Georgian dance. Elene and I practice almost every day that we don't have lessons with our teacher, but I have not been able to get the steps nor timing down for the spin. I keep ending up on my heels three feet to the side instead of staying on my toes in one place. The spin goes smoothly and quickly and looks so beautiful....well, it's supposed to! My spin has been jerky, slow, and clumsy. Until today. My teacher broke down the step combination in a way that I finally understood, and then we practiced it over and over and over and over and over and over and then some more. There were several moments when I had to stop because of dizziness -- then I paid attention to spotting correctly so I could go on.
There are so many things to think about when doing a spin. Spotting is one of the most important -- it's how dancers can spin and spin without getting dizzy. The head has to go from one shoulder to the other as quickly as possible to look for the front wall before the body finishes making its revolution. That's not too hard. It just takes a little getting used to the fast motion (this is where my brain gets scrambled). The weight transfer from one foot to the other is what kept tripping me up (almost literally sometimes). The toe that gets spun on is not the toe that has the weight on it to begin with -- that's what I kept missing. If spinning to the right, the right toe begins pointed out to the side with the weight on the left, but the weight shifts to the right as the body rotates directly over the right toe and the left steps to the other side of the right toe as close to it as possible, then moves around again to where it started. When the body has rotated fully, the weight remains on the right toe with the left pointed out to the side, ready to receive the weight for the left-hand spin. And back and forth and back and forth, right then left, right then left. Then add the arm motions -- thankfully they follow the motion of the spin -- out to the sides to start, then wrapping around the front and back to follow the flow of the rotation. The tricky part is to keep the hands in the proper position -- "Georgian hands" -- graceful and fluid.
Try keeping track of all of that in the matter of a fraction of a second. It was not easy while I had to think about each piece. The first (many) times I tried this, I got my head looking the correct direction to start and the right toe out to the side, but then I'd get lost. My brain couldn't keep up with what was supposed to happen next. But now I can do the motion without having to think about it (tacit knowledge -- one of the things that I loved studying in my graduate work. If you don't know what it is, read up on it -- fascinating stuff!) My muscles have learned what to do, the sequence of motions now feels fluid, and so my spin actually works -- I can stay on my toes (mostly) and end where I began (usually). After at least an hour of only spinning, I should hope I have it down! Not thinking about the process makes it easier to do (that's tacit knowledge).
Language has also been scrambled in my brain lately. I keep mixing up Georgian and Spanish when I try speaking Georgian. My brain knows that I am not speaking English, and it defaults to Spanish. I have actually put Spanish words into sentences that I try to say in Georgian. Mixing English and Spanish is called "Spanglish" -- so what is mixing Georgian and Spanish? Georgnish? or maybe Spangian? Whatever it's called, it's in my brain mashed up with English. Keeping the three straight is getting to be a bit difficult. I am still thinking in English, but when trying to decode the Georgian that I hear, my thinking moves to Spanish -- that's not helpful! So the words going in my ears are one language, and they don't match the ones in the "language files" in my head.....except for a few in the very small file labeled, "ქართული" ("Georgian," in Georgian). My synapses are not used to checking that file for information -- they keep trying to look up the necessary language information in the "Español" file. They are going to get themselves fired soon if they keep this up.
It would be really nice if learning to speak a language were as easy as learning to dance.
And now, scrambled brain and tired feet are telling my confused synapses that it is time to sleep....
Monday, February 14, 2011
Need a ride?
Public transportation is a must in Georgia. Many people cannot afford to buy a car -- or if they can buy a Soviet-era jalopy on its last leg (or, wheel....) that burns oil faster than gas, they can't afford to fix it or replace the liquids it uses up so quickly. Public transportation is very affordable and readily available to most parts of the country -- it only costs 15 lari (less than $8.50) for a bus or marshutka from Zugdidi to Tbilisi (a five- or six-hour drive). And for one lari -- that's 56 cents (that the drivers still won't take from me), anyone from Shamgona can ride the 30-45 minutes it takes to lurch and jostle into Zugdidi on our marshutka. I know that I have written a few times about riding on my village's marshutka, but while on my way into Zugdidi today, I realized that the marshutka is a micro-cosm of this country's communal culture.
The marshutka is whatever anyone needs it to be: public transport, school bus, delivery vehicle, or private shuttle. While on my way out of town today, several of my students were on board -- those who live a little too far away from school to walk. When we got to their houses, the "bus" stopped, and out they went -- school bus minus the flashing lights and little "stop" sign that pops out.
If someone wants to send something to someone up the road, they send it via marshutka. Today Lika needed to get a note to one of her neighbors. She called her neighbor and told her to come out to meet the 12:30 marshutka -- Lika caught it on our end of the village, gave the note to the driver, and asked him to deliver it to its recipient. Anything can be sent up the road -- note, box, bag, or chicken. On our way back into the village this afternoon, the driver must have run errands for people while in town -- he stopped at three houses on the way through Shamgona, honked the horn, and handed over a shopping bag with purchases that he had stashed on the dash to whomever came out to answer the honk. I've even seen these exchanges take place long-distance -- like a mechanized pony-express.
Marshutkas can stop anywhere the riders need them to. Unlike buses that have designated places to get on and off, in the village, we can flag them down from anywhere. Tea actually had to run out of the house today and yell for it to stop for me -- it came by the house early, and I was just finishing lunch. And stopping is just as easy. "Gamicheret aq!"-- that's all it takes to bring the vehicle to a stop in front of whatever destination.
Sitting in the marshutka is a coveted position (although it's still not that comfortable for anyone with long legs). And the seating seems to be prioritized -- the elderly and women with small children are always given seats. Even if it is a difficult switch because of marshutka's capacity, men or younger women always give up their seats for older people, women with kids, or the uncommon "guest." (Non-Georgians don't ride marshutkas very often -- except for a few of us!) The few times that I have stood for the ride, I have thanked God for quality welding and rivets that securely hold the bars running the length of the ceiling as twenty or so people hold on for dear life. There are also what I call "doorkeeper" seats -- a carpeted banquette beside the driver's seat that the driver's friends usually occupy -- to help with bags or the door when needed.
Bags go anywhere and everywhere -- on the dash along with umbrellas, under the seats, stacked along the wall by the door or under the dash. The large, 100# bags of flour or sugar go inside the back door along with boxes or crates of chickens. Other bags go on the laps of those sitting down, making more room in the aisle to pack in more passengers.
Music is almost always playing in the marshutka -- loudly -- whether from the vehicle's radio or from a rider's phone. I love it when someone plays music from their phone -- tinny, static-y speakers blaring anything from traditional Georgian music to Lady Gaga to Russian remixes of American-top-40 from the 80's.
It really is a micro-cosm of the Georgian culture -- everything is done for the good of the whole. Discomfort of being squished in like sardines is endured so that everyone can have a ride to where they need to go. The lack of personal space is evident. Generosity is apparent on every ride -- whether on the part of the driver not taking payment or a fellow-rider giving up his seat. If it is raining or snowing out, the marshutka picks up anyone walking along the road. As uncomfortable as it can be, this ever-present mode of transportation is a necessity and a blessing -- a physical representation of the Georgian culture.
The marshutka is whatever anyone needs it to be: public transport, school bus, delivery vehicle, or private shuttle. While on my way out of town today, several of my students were on board -- those who live a little too far away from school to walk. When we got to their houses, the "bus" stopped, and out they went -- school bus minus the flashing lights and little "stop" sign that pops out.
If someone wants to send something to someone up the road, they send it via marshutka. Today Lika needed to get a note to one of her neighbors. She called her neighbor and told her to come out to meet the 12:30 marshutka -- Lika caught it on our end of the village, gave the note to the driver, and asked him to deliver it to its recipient. Anything can be sent up the road -- note, box, bag, or chicken. On our way back into the village this afternoon, the driver must have run errands for people while in town -- he stopped at three houses on the way through Shamgona, honked the horn, and handed over a shopping bag with purchases that he had stashed on the dash to whomever came out to answer the honk. I've even seen these exchanges take place long-distance -- like a mechanized pony-express.
Marshutkas can stop anywhere the riders need them to. Unlike buses that have designated places to get on and off, in the village, we can flag them down from anywhere. Tea actually had to run out of the house today and yell for it to stop for me -- it came by the house early, and I was just finishing lunch. And stopping is just as easy. "Gamicheret aq!"-- that's all it takes to bring the vehicle to a stop in front of whatever destination.
Sitting in the marshutka is a coveted position (although it's still not that comfortable for anyone with long legs). And the seating seems to be prioritized -- the elderly and women with small children are always given seats. Even if it is a difficult switch because of marshutka's capacity, men or younger women always give up their seats for older people, women with kids, or the uncommon "guest." (Non-Georgians don't ride marshutkas very often -- except for a few of us!) The few times that I have stood for the ride, I have thanked God for quality welding and rivets that securely hold the bars running the length of the ceiling as twenty or so people hold on for dear life. There are also what I call "doorkeeper" seats -- a carpeted banquette beside the driver's seat that the driver's friends usually occupy -- to help with bags or the door when needed.
Bags go anywhere and everywhere -- on the dash along with umbrellas, under the seats, stacked along the wall by the door or under the dash. The large, 100# bags of flour or sugar go inside the back door along with boxes or crates of chickens. Other bags go on the laps of those sitting down, making more room in the aisle to pack in more passengers.
Music is almost always playing in the marshutka -- loudly -- whether from the vehicle's radio or from a rider's phone. I love it when someone plays music from their phone -- tinny, static-y speakers blaring anything from traditional Georgian music to Lady Gaga to Russian remixes of American-top-40 from the 80's.
It really is a micro-cosm of the Georgian culture -- everything is done for the good of the whole. Discomfort of being squished in like sardines is endured so that everyone can have a ride to where they need to go. The lack of personal space is evident. Generosity is apparent on every ride -- whether on the part of the driver not taking payment or a fellow-rider giving up his seat. If it is raining or snowing out, the marshutka picks up anyone walking along the road. As uncomfortable as it can be, this ever-present mode of transportation is a necessity and a blessing -- a physical representation of the Georgian culture.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Blank
This is a day that I knew would come. It was bound to happen -- with promising to post a blog entry every day for seven months, it had to happen sometime: I have nothing to say today. At least, nothing uplifting, positive, or insightful. The day was pretty depressing.
It was another cold, rainy, hail-filled, snowy, gray day.
Across the street in the graveyard, a group of men dug a grave today. That must have been a brutal job in the cold wetness of the day. I kept thinking that digging a hole is hard enough work, but digging a grave when the dirt is heavy with water and the air is frigid must be absolutely wretched.
I updated my resume and started looking online for open teaching positions for next year. I'm not sure why that depresses me so much, but it does. Maybe because there are so few positions out there.
I've stared at my keyboard long enough and still have nothing. Tomorrow I'll find something less depressing!!
It was another cold, rainy, hail-filled, snowy, gray day.
Across the street in the graveyard, a group of men dug a grave today. That must have been a brutal job in the cold wetness of the day. I kept thinking that digging a hole is hard enough work, but digging a grave when the dirt is heavy with water and the air is frigid must be absolutely wretched.
I updated my resume and started looking online for open teaching positions for next year. I'm not sure why that depresses me so much, but it does. Maybe because there are so few positions out there.
I've stared at my keyboard long enough and still have nothing. Tomorrow I'll find something less depressing!!
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Listen more, laugh more
While I was running today, I enjoyed several things -- it wasn't raining (or hailing), I wasn't freezing my tail off, and I saw the season's first daffodils (although a pig was eating them). I had almost taken my ipod with me, but I am glad that I didn't; I would have missed some nice sounds -- the birds were singing today, two buffalo in the road had bells around their necks that harmonized nicely, and some of my sweet little students called, "Hello," to me from their houses. And I would have missed one of the things that made me laugh today.
As I was just about to turn around and head back to the house, I heard some funny splashing in the giant puddle on the side of the road. I looked over to see four ducks in the puddle, but it took me a second to recognize that they were ducks -- all I saw were four pointy duck-tails bobbing up and down in perfect time, moving side to side as if they were synchronized swimmers. They looked so funny -- all four of them upside-down in the water at the same time moving together as if they had practiced their choreography for months.
Later on I was in the bathroom washing some clothes. I had put some of the powdered detergent in the plastic tub with a little warm water and was swishing it around to dissolve the soap. Suddenly I heard Leban (who is in seventh grade) singing in the living room while playing Grand Theft Auto: Vice City on the computer. I listened carefully to hear him crooning away in the best Harry Connick, Jr. impression........the "ABC Song!"
Friday, February 11, 2011
A teacher of teachers
Some days I feel the gravity and importance of what I am doing here more heavily than others. Today was one of those days.
The Educational Resource Centers positioned all over Georgia function as offshoots of the Ministry of Education. Teachers go there to participate in trainings for the new Western educational system that the government wants implemented in all schools across the country. At our ERC in Zugdidi, there is an American English Language Fellow, Peggy who leads the English language teachers' trainings. Peggy is working at teaching the English teachers how to change their teaching style from Soviet-era to Western. Since I am part of the English department, I attend the trainings with my two co-teachers. We had one today.
Today's topic was Classroom Management -- a tricky one for even the most seasoned teacher -- but here in Georgia where real education has not been historically valued (under Soviet rule), disrespect and misbehavior are all-too-common problems in the classroom. I am fortunate to have mostly well-behaved students, but that is not the norm across the country. In today's training, Peggy introduced concepts like focus-activities to start a class, dealing with misbehavior as soon as it occurs, and having some type of penalty (a word none of the Georgian teachers knew....O, so telling.... They knew the word "punishment" but not "penalty") for not having homework completed. As an experienced teacher, I have used all of these concepts in my (American) classroom for years. But this was truly breaking new ground for the teachers at the meeting today. Most of them had no idea what Peggy was talking about for the focus activity nor the penalty for incomplete homework. (Tea was the exception here -- we have talked about all these things in our kitchen-talks.) Retraining the teachers in an entire country is a gigantic task -- a task that is much more difficult than it may seem. And we TLG teachers are a part of that task.
Equilibrium is difficult to find in trying to model Western-style education without completely taking over the local teachers' jobs. There are so many things that are not in place in the present educational system that are needed to support a Western teaching style -- the grading system, the curriculum, the basic philosophy of education -- it's like trying to play soccer on the bottom of the ocean -- not entirely impossible, but very difficult!
In Lika's and Tea's classes, I am working at slowly changing the way they approach teaching -- methods, activities, attitudes toward homework, grading. Taking one thing at a time is the best approach for them and the students. If we tried to change everything at once, it would be too overwhelming for everyone. Each week I broach a new topic in as delicate a way as I can to see if they are satisfied with the present system -- neither of them is, so I am free to suggest that we try something new. In the following days, I help them put new things into their lesson plans, then teach that part of the lesson to model the change for them. They are both excited at the changes and see that their students are going to greatly benefit from their new approaches.
Unfortunately, not all teachers are convinced that the new teaching styles are going to work. I am working with three teachers to prepare them for their upcoming certification exams -- Tea, Lika, and Sopo. Thursday I spent time with Sopo helping her with her writing. As we talked about school, I made a comment about spending time in class writing. She replied that there is no time what with having to review all the homework exercises that the students didn't do the night before and then "telling the lesson" -- meaning that students stand up and recite a ridiculously lengthy and irrelevant text from their book -- the very things that Peggy is teaching them to NOT do. I really wanted to tell her that she is wasting her time doing those things, but I don't know Sopo well enough yet -- so I bit my tongue and said something benign. But I can't let this go. In the coming weeks, I'll find some way to come back to the topic and try to reiterate what she is learning (or, supposed to be learning) from Peggy.
Teaching the teachers. That's part of my job -- and I think it is the most important part. These ladies will be here long after I am gone. They are the ones who will be teaching the students here for years to come. If I can help them become quality teachers, everyone will benefit.
The Educational Resource Centers positioned all over Georgia function as offshoots of the Ministry of Education. Teachers go there to participate in trainings for the new Western educational system that the government wants implemented in all schools across the country. At our ERC in Zugdidi, there is an American English Language Fellow, Peggy who leads the English language teachers' trainings. Peggy is working at teaching the English teachers how to change their teaching style from Soviet-era to Western. Since I am part of the English department, I attend the trainings with my two co-teachers. We had one today.
Today's topic was Classroom Management -- a tricky one for even the most seasoned teacher -- but here in Georgia where real education has not been historically valued (under Soviet rule), disrespect and misbehavior are all-too-common problems in the classroom. I am fortunate to have mostly well-behaved students, but that is not the norm across the country. In today's training, Peggy introduced concepts like focus-activities to start a class, dealing with misbehavior as soon as it occurs, and having some type of penalty (a word none of the Georgian teachers knew....O, so telling.... They knew the word "punishment" but not "penalty") for not having homework completed. As an experienced teacher, I have used all of these concepts in my (American) classroom for years. But this was truly breaking new ground for the teachers at the meeting today. Most of them had no idea what Peggy was talking about for the focus activity nor the penalty for incomplete homework. (Tea was the exception here -- we have talked about all these things in our kitchen-talks.) Retraining the teachers in an entire country is a gigantic task -- a task that is much more difficult than it may seem. And we TLG teachers are a part of that task.
Equilibrium is difficult to find in trying to model Western-style education without completely taking over the local teachers' jobs. There are so many things that are not in place in the present educational system that are needed to support a Western teaching style -- the grading system, the curriculum, the basic philosophy of education -- it's like trying to play soccer on the bottom of the ocean -- not entirely impossible, but very difficult!
In Lika's and Tea's classes, I am working at slowly changing the way they approach teaching -- methods, activities, attitudes toward homework, grading. Taking one thing at a time is the best approach for them and the students. If we tried to change everything at once, it would be too overwhelming for everyone. Each week I broach a new topic in as delicate a way as I can to see if they are satisfied with the present system -- neither of them is, so I am free to suggest that we try something new. In the following days, I help them put new things into their lesson plans, then teach that part of the lesson to model the change for them. They are both excited at the changes and see that their students are going to greatly benefit from their new approaches.
Unfortunately, not all teachers are convinced that the new teaching styles are going to work. I am working with three teachers to prepare them for their upcoming certification exams -- Tea, Lika, and Sopo. Thursday I spent time with Sopo helping her with her writing. As we talked about school, I made a comment about spending time in class writing. She replied that there is no time what with having to review all the homework exercises that the students didn't do the night before and then "telling the lesson" -- meaning that students stand up and recite a ridiculously lengthy and irrelevant text from their book -- the very things that Peggy is teaching them to NOT do. I really wanted to tell her that she is wasting her time doing those things, but I don't know Sopo well enough yet -- so I bit my tongue and said something benign. But I can't let this go. In the coming weeks, I'll find some way to come back to the topic and try to reiterate what she is learning (or, supposed to be learning) from Peggy.
Teaching the teachers. That's part of my job -- and I think it is the most important part. These ladies will be here long after I am gone. They are the ones who will be teaching the students here for years to come. If I can help them become quality teachers, everyone will benefit.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Instability
This word was in my head off and on all day today.
When I went to bed last night, it was raining that frigid rain again, but when I got up this morning, the air had warmed up and the clouds were breaking up. I was looking forward to some sunshine today. While walking to school, I got what I had been wishing for, although I noticed that the mountains in the distance were still socked in by clouds. About 30 minutes later, it was raining again -- big, fat drops pinged against the windows of the classroom in a random rhythm. The mountains had shaken off the gray clouds, and they had moved into the village. I noticed that they were fast-moving, loosely adherent clouds -- the kind that tell you that the weather is going to change constantly all day long. That was the first time the word "instability" popped into my head. As the weather held its promise, changing throughout the day from rain to sun to cloudy to warm then cold with hail to more rain, I kept thinking about that word.
The instability of the weather got me thinking about the situation in Egypt -- I'm not sure how my mind went from the weather to Cairo, but it did. (It was while I was running in the rain/no rain/hail/rain, and my mind often moves in random ways when I'm running.) I have been following the uprisings online since I can't understand a lot of what the Georgian news reporters say about it.
When the fighting first broke out, I wasn't sure how I felt about having been in the very place where the worst of the conflict was taking place only the week before. Seeing Tahrir Square packed with demonstrators, police, tanks, barricades and fires was one of the most surreal experiences I have felt. I stood there with my mouth agape, at a loss for words when I saw the news. It was like I was watching television -- I know that I was in reality, but I mean metaphorically -- it felt unreal. How could that really be the same place I had just walked the week before? How could a huge uprising have gathered so much momentum in only a week? Had it been stirring while we were there? It must have been. How did we not sense it? We went to the Egyptian Musuem that sits on one side of the square. We "Froggered" our way across those very lanes of traffic. We undoubtedly walked past and maybe talked to some of those very men now gathered in the rioting throng. I wonder if the two men who tried to get us to fall for the oldest trick in the Cairo-scam-a-tourist book are on the anti-goverment or pro-goverment side? (Since they tried slyly leading us to the "Government Bazaar," my guess is pro.)
Now as I reflect on the time that we spent there in light of the present situation, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for our safety. There are no coincidences in life, and I am thankful to God for the peace (well, as peaceful as Cairo ever can be) that still ruled while we were there, at least on the surface. I know that there has been unrest in Egypt for a long time -- that instability that I've been thinking about -- it seems that the storm clouds of conflict have settled over Egypt in the present political climate of instability. They must have been gathering just off the Nile while James, Katherine, and I flew to safety. And we didn't even know it.
Weird. I still don't know exactly how to feel about it -- thankful? yes. grateful? yes. humble? yes. blessed? most, certainly.
When I went to bed last night, it was raining that frigid rain again, but when I got up this morning, the air had warmed up and the clouds were breaking up. I was looking forward to some sunshine today. While walking to school, I got what I had been wishing for, although I noticed that the mountains in the distance were still socked in by clouds. About 30 minutes later, it was raining again -- big, fat drops pinged against the windows of the classroom in a random rhythm. The mountains had shaken off the gray clouds, and they had moved into the village. I noticed that they were fast-moving, loosely adherent clouds -- the kind that tell you that the weather is going to change constantly all day long. That was the first time the word "instability" popped into my head. As the weather held its promise, changing throughout the day from rain to sun to cloudy to warm then cold with hail to more rain, I kept thinking about that word.
The instability of the weather got me thinking about the situation in Egypt -- I'm not sure how my mind went from the weather to Cairo, but it did. (It was while I was running in the rain/no rain/hail/rain, and my mind often moves in random ways when I'm running.) I have been following the uprisings online since I can't understand a lot of what the Georgian news reporters say about it.
When the fighting first broke out, I wasn't sure how I felt about having been in the very place where the worst of the conflict was taking place only the week before. Seeing Tahrir Square packed with demonstrators, police, tanks, barricades and fires was one of the most surreal experiences I have felt. I stood there with my mouth agape, at a loss for words when I saw the news. It was like I was watching television -- I know that I was in reality, but I mean metaphorically -- it felt unreal. How could that really be the same place I had just walked the week before? How could a huge uprising have gathered so much momentum in only a week? Had it been stirring while we were there? It must have been. How did we not sense it? We went to the Egyptian Musuem that sits on one side of the square. We "Froggered" our way across those very lanes of traffic. We undoubtedly walked past and maybe talked to some of those very men now gathered in the rioting throng. I wonder if the two men who tried to get us to fall for the oldest trick in the Cairo-scam-a-tourist book are on the anti-goverment or pro-goverment side? (Since they tried slyly leading us to the "Government Bazaar," my guess is pro.)
Now as I reflect on the time that we spent there in light of the present situation, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for our safety. There are no coincidences in life, and I am thankful to God for the peace (well, as peaceful as Cairo ever can be) that still ruled while we were there, at least on the surface. I know that there has been unrest in Egypt for a long time -- that instability that I've been thinking about -- it seems that the storm clouds of conflict have settled over Egypt in the present political climate of instability. They must have been gathering just off the Nile while James, Katherine, and I flew to safety. And we didn't even know it.
Weird. I still don't know exactly how to feel about it -- thankful? yes. grateful? yes. humble? yes. blessed? most, certainly.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Work
"Speedy" will never be one of my nicknames. I am not fast - not when I run or walk or drive or do pretty much anything. But compared to Georgians, I could be Flash Gordon. If I want to walk alongside anyone, I have to walk at a pace that is almost painfully slow, otherwise I end up 20 feet ahead of them within thirty seconds. A snail's pace seems to be the pace at which most of life happens here (except for dancing, then it's blazing fast). I've been thinking about why everyone exerts as little energy as possible in every action (again, except for dancing), and in my wondering have come up with some interesting thoughts.
The slow pace affects many, many aspects of productivity in work and school. Nothing is ever done ahead of time. Everything happens at the last minute, and although everyone complains about it, nothing changes. Work is done just hard enough to keep the family and community existing at the status quo.
In the cultural training classes I took with my intake group the first week I was in Georgia, we identified a large list of underlying attitudes that affect a people's cultural practices. Today while looking at the list, I noticed two of the things that got me thinking about the snail's pace of Georgian life: tempo of work and incentive to work. In processing these two attitudes in light of what I have observed, I think that the tempo of work is a result of the incentive -- or in the case of Georgian culture, the lack thereof!
Georgia was a part of the former Soviet Union, and under that communist rule, there was little incentive to work..... at least to work hard. No personal gains were made by working hard -- it was all done for the good of the whole. And it seems that Capitalism has not yet caught on (outside of Tbilisi) although Georgia has been independent for two decades. When the Soviets lost power, they closed down many, many factories that had been the main source of jobs for many areas of Georgia (and Armenia). When I was in Yerevan with my fellow TLG teachers before Christmas, we took a tour of "Soviet Yerevan" and saw many, many abandoned factories on the outskirts of the city -- huge, hulking masses of crumbling concrete and rusting rebar that lay like giants of industry abandoned to the soot and dust of disuse. We drove for miles passing one vacant monstrosity after another. Our tour guide talked about working there during the "high times" of the factory-production (he hadn't worked there, but played a comedic, tongue-in-cheek role of someone who lived and worked at that time). The only incentive was to not get fired. Not many workers did much actual work. They showed up every day, and then did as little as possible.
This is the attitude toward work that I still see in so many people here - adults and students. Unemployment among men is rampant since the Soviet Union dissolved, but that was twenty years ago. What are the men waiting for? For the government to create jobs for them. A few have taken initiative and created their own businesses, but capital is needed for entrepreneurial ventures. In the Soviet system, few individuals made enough profit to become independently wealthy enough to finance their way to a better future. And so, they wait. Standing on the street in knots of black leather jackets and cigarettes -- role models for the upcoming generation of teenage boys who already exhibit the same lackadaisical symptoms in their inattentive (or completely absent) school work. As I look around me, I see little effort from most to make their lives better.
Maybe some don't want anything more out of life, or maybe they just aren't willing to work for it. The word "lazy" is thrown around daily to describe anyone who doesn't put forth any effort in their work. I think that maybe the laziness has been taught to the young people as a result of the adult's attitude toward work under the Soviet rule -- but now, with the absence of Soviet-style consequences coupled with the lack of available jobs, there is almost zero incentive to work.
Life here is hard. Maybe everyone is just tired. Every opportunity to sit down is relished with a huge sigh of "Deda....." Keeping one step ahead of defunct must be wearing. Weariness overshadows the incentive to work any harder than existence dictates.
So the pace of life is slow. Energy is not expended unnecessarily. And while I walk along with those I live around, I'll slow down to their speed. (When I dance with them, I'll work hard to keep up!) And while moving so slowly, I'll look for ways to inspire some new incentives that can propel the youth along a different path to a better future.
The slow pace affects many, many aspects of productivity in work and school. Nothing is ever done ahead of time. Everything happens at the last minute, and although everyone complains about it, nothing changes. Work is done just hard enough to keep the family and community existing at the status quo.
In the cultural training classes I took with my intake group the first week I was in Georgia, we identified a large list of underlying attitudes that affect a people's cultural practices. Today while looking at the list, I noticed two of the things that got me thinking about the snail's pace of Georgian life: tempo of work and incentive to work. In processing these two attitudes in light of what I have observed, I think that the tempo of work is a result of the incentive -- or in the case of Georgian culture, the lack thereof!
Georgia was a part of the former Soviet Union, and under that communist rule, there was little incentive to work..... at least to work hard. No personal gains were made by working hard -- it was all done for the good of the whole. And it seems that Capitalism has not yet caught on (outside of Tbilisi) although Georgia has been independent for two decades. When the Soviets lost power, they closed down many, many factories that had been the main source of jobs for many areas of Georgia (and Armenia). When I was in Yerevan with my fellow TLG teachers before Christmas, we took a tour of "Soviet Yerevan" and saw many, many abandoned factories on the outskirts of the city -- huge, hulking masses of crumbling concrete and rusting rebar that lay like giants of industry abandoned to the soot and dust of disuse. We drove for miles passing one vacant monstrosity after another. Our tour guide talked about working there during the "high times" of the factory-production (he hadn't worked there, but played a comedic, tongue-in-cheek role of someone who lived and worked at that time). The only incentive was to not get fired. Not many workers did much actual work. They showed up every day, and then did as little as possible.
This is the attitude toward work that I still see in so many people here - adults and students. Unemployment among men is rampant since the Soviet Union dissolved, but that was twenty years ago. What are the men waiting for? For the government to create jobs for them. A few have taken initiative and created their own businesses, but capital is needed for entrepreneurial ventures. In the Soviet system, few individuals made enough profit to become independently wealthy enough to finance their way to a better future. And so, they wait. Standing on the street in knots of black leather jackets and cigarettes -- role models for the upcoming generation of teenage boys who already exhibit the same lackadaisical symptoms in their inattentive (or completely absent) school work. As I look around me, I see little effort from most to make their lives better.
Maybe some don't want anything more out of life, or maybe they just aren't willing to work for it. The word "lazy" is thrown around daily to describe anyone who doesn't put forth any effort in their work. I think that maybe the laziness has been taught to the young people as a result of the adult's attitude toward work under the Soviet rule -- but now, with the absence of Soviet-style consequences coupled with the lack of available jobs, there is almost zero incentive to work.
Life here is hard. Maybe everyone is just tired. Every opportunity to sit down is relished with a huge sigh of "Deda....." Keeping one step ahead of defunct must be wearing. Weariness overshadows the incentive to work any harder than existence dictates.
So the pace of life is slow. Energy is not expended unnecessarily. And while I walk along with those I live around, I'll slow down to their speed. (When I dance with them, I'll work hard to keep up!) And while moving so slowly, I'll look for ways to inspire some new incentives that can propel the youth along a different path to a better future.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The tongue eventually learns
Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.
Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.
Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.
Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.
This has been running over and over and over and over in my head all afternoon since dance class. It's the numbers one - eight in Georgian. And after hearing my dance teacher say them many, many, many times throughout the two and a half-hour class, the pattern of thought is stuck. As I went for a run after class, I counted. (Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.) As I stretched afterward, I counted. (Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.) As I showered, I counted. (Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.) About the 1,000th time the string of numbers played in my mouth, I realized something (erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva) -- not only do I know what these words mean, but I can say them with ease. (Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.) That is a vast, vast difference from only three months ago when I wrote down these then-so-foreign words while in California and stumbled through the pronunciation. (Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.) The first time I tried to say them was a riot! Especially "eqsvi" and "rva." As my dad used to say, "My tongue got twisted around my eye-teeth so I couldn't see what I was saying!" I didn't know how to form the sounds. The combinations of consonants were sounds that I had never made before -- at least not on purpose. Now I have no trouble combining a "q" with an "s" and a "v." (Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.)
I'm not entirely sure when my tongue loosened up, but I find myself saying Georgian words much more easily now. That is one of the things I find most interesting about language -- the sounds that are unique to each distinct one. When I first learned Spanish, I could not roll my "r" -- it wasn't until four years into studying the language that my mouth figured out how to make that sound. But since I have been speaking English all my life, I don't find any of its sounds difficult. I didn't think of any of them as tricky -- until teaching English as a foreign language. There are many sounds in English that give my Georgian-learners difficulty. Sounds like "ir" in "bird" or "girl;" almost no one can pronounce this correctly -- the "th" sound (hard and soft) comes out as "s," "z," or "d" -- the "w" is constantly mixed up with the "v" -- the combination of any vowel and "ng"-- the "r" -- and the list could go on.
In all fairness, there are still four Georgian letters that I cannot pronounce correctly -- there were seven, so I'm improving!
Teaching pronunciation is almost as frustrating as learning it. I have had lots of practice teaching Spanish pronunciation, so I know how to explain what is going on inside the mouth to form the uniquely-Spanish sounds. And I think I could explain how to form the English sounds.....but I don't know how to say any of that in Georgian. So I do a lot of pointing to various parts of my lips, throat, tongue, and teeth while over-emphasizing one, isolated sound. It gets pretty funny sometimes! But looking and sounding ridiculous is completely worth it when one of my students suddenly stumbles into the correct pronunciation through the unintelligible repetition of sound. Replicating the correct sound then becomes the trick....
So as I continue to teach and learn language, my mouth and my mind are being exercised. At least I have the counting pattern down for the exercise......erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.
Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.
Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.
Erti, ori, sami, otkhi, khuti, eqsvi, shvidi, rva.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Applied skill and necessity
I've mentioned a couple of times that I grew up in rural Maine. There are many things about my present life in the village that remind me of my childhood years spent in fields, the woods, barns, and gardens. Something about the similarity between the two ways of life keeps bringing back old adages that I often heard in New England when I was young; then they didn't mean much to me. Now they do.
"A stitch in time saves nine." This one gave me trouble when I was little -- I remember working really hard to understand what it meant, to no avail. Now I know! And I have a shirt and a sock that will need more than nine extra stitches if I don't get to mending them soon!
"You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die." I'm not sure if I heard this more from my dad or my grandpa, nor am I sure it is one of ye olde adages.... but I have thought of this saying many, many times since coming to Georgia. Sanitation is not rampant in the village -- the water that is drawn from the well is not filtered -- dirt finds its way into just about everything.
"Necessity is the mother of invention" -- and those from New England summarize and personalize this particular adage and call it "Yankee ingenuity." "Yankee ingenuity" is a prized characteristic of New Englanders, and as a proud Mainer, I am glad to have inherited this knack for thinking about things in a new way -- applying the skills I have to practical problems and coming up with solutions.
A week ago, I bought a skein of yarn to give my knitting needles -- and my hands -- something to do when I'm tired of reading while sitting by the stove in the kitchen. I made a couple of headbands wide enough to cover the ears -- one for me and one for Tea (although I may make another for her since Koba keeps stealing hers!). I wanted to make some mittens, but I don't have any double-pointed needles with me -- and the needles I have are too short to make a hat. I kept coming back to mittens or gloves..... then I got an idea. My hands are always cold ("Cold hands, warm heart," right?), and with a less-than-effective heating system at school, I wear my gloves everyday during classes. But when I need to write on the chalkboard, I have to take off my right glove to keep it from getting chalky. So, I thought about making some fingerless gloves -- basically an extension of a sleeve with a thumb-hole. I got out a piece of paper and sketched out a rough pattern for my creation. It took a little finagling and ripping out a couple of rows that didn't go as planned, but in the end, my idea worked great! I have some cute little hand-warmers to go with my headband. Now my hands stay warmer at school, and I can write on the chalkboard with ease.
Applied skill and necessity -- the results of this combination are rewarding!
"A stitch in time saves nine." This one gave me trouble when I was little -- I remember working really hard to understand what it meant, to no avail. Now I know! And I have a shirt and a sock that will need more than nine extra stitches if I don't get to mending them soon!
"You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die." I'm not sure if I heard this more from my dad or my grandpa, nor am I sure it is one of ye olde adages.... but I have thought of this saying many, many times since coming to Georgia. Sanitation is not rampant in the village -- the water that is drawn from the well is not filtered -- dirt finds its way into just about everything.
"Necessity is the mother of invention" -- and those from New England summarize and personalize this particular adage and call it "Yankee ingenuity." "Yankee ingenuity" is a prized characteristic of New Englanders, and as a proud Mainer, I am glad to have inherited this knack for thinking about things in a new way -- applying the skills I have to practical problems and coming up with solutions.
 |
| My hand warmers and headband -- they just about match my red nose! |
Applied skill and necessity -- the results of this combination are rewarding!
Sunday, February 6, 2011
First Georgian cooking lessons
Cooking is one of the things I love to do no matter where I am. Different places bring new methods of cooking -- when camping I cook in a much different way than when I am in my own kitchen, but the food is no less delicious. Now that I have no kitchen of my own, I do a lot of observing instead of actual cooking. But this weekend, cooking lessons abounded! I learned to make three new things that (I think) I'll be able to make when I get back to the U.S.
 |
| Finished cake design ready for its final rising |
Saturday morning Tea told me while we were eating breakfast that she wanted to try making the cake that her sister had taught her to make a couple of weeks ago. It is the one that takes some artistry to put together, and she is a bit trepidatious of that part, so I told her that I would help. Then I added that I would love to write down the recipe and help her make it. She agreed, so with pen and paper in my hand, I wrote while watching and listening as Tea measured out the yeast and sugar for proofing, mixed together the eggs and sugar while I melted butter and heated milk on the stove, added them to the egg-sugar mixture, added in the yeast mixture next, and finally, the flour. Everything is done by hand, and measuring instruments are not standard -- a regular spoon, a tea cup from the cupboard, a saucer. As I wrote the steps, I tried to estimate what the standard measurements would be, but I think that a few attempts on my own will tell me since it's all really done by feel.
 |
| Delicious! |
Since it's a yeast dough, it has to be allowed to rise a few times before being baked. We started the dough just after breakfast, and it wasn't until mid-day that it was ready to be put together in the pans. Tea did the first one (there was enough dough for three large cakes) while I watched and wrote down what to do. While the first one was in the oven, some of her students came to the house to be tutored, so I told Tea to leave the kitchen to me, and I would take care of everything. What fun! I stoked the fire when it got low, punched down the dough, oiled the cake pans, rolled out the circles of dough for the main part of the cake, spread on the fig jam, then oiled my hands and rolled narrow rods of dough to criss-cross across the top of the jam. Then with scissors, I cut tongues of dough and stretched them to the sides, making a leafy pattern that looked a little like bamboo (in the first picture). It was so much fun to be active in the kitchen instead of passive (I hate sitting around). A couple of times Koba poked his head in the door as I was filling the stove with hazelnut shells or rolling out the dough, and he just chuckled. I'm sure he's not used to seeing a "guest" work the kitchen. After a final rising of the dough in the pans, we baked them. Delicious!
That night we made suneli -- hot chili paste. After clipping the stems off the dried chilies, we washed them, then clamped a metal meat grinder to the table (the same kind my mom used when I was young to grind pork, potatoes, and onion for pork pie). We took turns at the grinder -- the chilies were very difficult to mash through the machine. While one of us was turning the handle, the other fed peppers and, every now and then a spoonful of salt into the hopper. It was such hard work, we kept stripping layers off as we worked the grinder -- usually I wear two tank tops, a long-sleeved shirt, a vest or sweater (sometimes both), and a scarf. With the fire going in the stove and the hard work of cranking the handle, we heated up quickly and by the time we were done, we had peeled off sweaters, scarves, and vests. With two of us working together, it only took about 30 minutes to grind all the chilies. Then we put three heads worth of garlic cloves in the hopper and ground those, too. Along with the chilies, salt, and garlic, Tea added some ground coriander and another spice whose name we still have to look up in English. The chili paste keeps for several months and is added to everything -- the way I usually use Tabasco sauce!
Pelamushi is the last thing I learned to make this weekend. It is like nothing I have ever had anywhere else, and the only way I can describe it is a grape juice pudding…..but not really. This one is going to be the most difficult to make correctly in the U.S. unless I make my own grape juice as well. But I have the directions for that, too, so I just may! But I am getting ahead of myself..
Several weeks ago I went to a birthday supra -- I know that I wrote about it in an earlier post -- at Sopo's house (another Georgian English teacher), and we talked about getting together to make pelamushi some day. True to her word, Sopo called me this week to see if I could go to her house to make some today. So at 1 o'clock I made my way to her house in the rain with my pen and paper in my coat pocket.
Sopo is a good teacher for me -- I have to do in order to really learn, and she was prepared to let me do everything while she directed. I'll get to the steps in a minute, but first I have to write a word or two about my audience. The fact that an American was coming to the house for a cooking lesson brought most of the extended family to the kitchen to watch. Sopo's aunt, uncle, brother, husband, cousin, sister-in-law, and mother-in-law all congregated in the room -- thankfully her kitchen is large enough to accommodate such a curious crowd. The ladies were the funniest -- of course, they are the ones who usually run that kitchen, so they watched earnestly and nodded deeply with approval and oooo'ed and aaahh'ed over every new step that I did correctly. They sat in a row on a bench along one side of the stove like three great athletes who had been benched for the game while the newbie took a turn. They kept offering to help me during the hot, difficult work, and when I declined to let them help, they nodded their approval anew and called me a good student.
So, on to pelamushi -- the only ingredients are home-made grape juice, sugar, flour, corn flour, and a touch of vanilla and honey. Again, the measuring instruments were a tea cup and a coffee mug. And again I estimated the standard measurements as well as I could. The flours and sugar were mixed together first, then a cup or two of juice was added and mixed in until there were no lumps in the dry ingredients. This mixture and the rest of the grape juice were combined in a heavy pot and put onto the stove for the hard work. The mixture had to come to a boil, but it had to be stirred constantly to keep it from sticking to the bottom of the pot. At first it was easy to stir, but as it heated up, the mixture got thick and heavy, and standing over the hot stove got.....well, hot. Again, I stripped off some layers as I stirred -- hat, scarf, sweater, and vest. (This is when the benched cooks kept asking if I wanted them to help.) The point at which the pelamushi is ready is quite subjective -- it has to be taste-tested for proper consistency -- when the corn flour is soft, it is done. When that point is reached, the pot comes off the stove and the thick mixture is ladled onto whatever it will be served on - plates (large or small) or a large pan. It has to be jiggled to smooth out the surface and then garnished with grated hazelnuts or walnuts.
Sopo's uncle kept joking that I should open a Georgian-cuisine restaurant when I get back to the States. He told me to take a couple of local grandmas with me to help with the cooking. I told him that I keep telling Tea that if she came to the States and opened a restaurant, she would make a killing -- she's such a fantastic cook. But as much as both Tea and I love to cook, we are teachers..... so the cooking will have to remain for fun alone. Well, that and necessity!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)