Sometimes I feel like I write about running too often. I know that most of my readers are not runners, and when writing, one should always keep the audience in mind. But it is such an important part of my life, I can't ignore the things that happen while I'm out for a run. After all, it may be the thing I do for the most amount of time after sleeping and working. So, if you are bored with my running posts, feel free to skip them. I won't be offended.
Yesterday was my day to run. I had contemplated running in the morning since my train arrived from Tbilisi at 6:30 a.m. and I didn't have to be at school to teach until 9:45. But when I got to the house, I started talking with Tea about the weekend's adventures and ran out of time. No problem, I would run in the afternoon, as usual.
Afternoon came around, and because it was hot and sunny, I put off going out until the sun had started going down. Tea and I sat in the living room talking while Elene bounced around from one place to another. I mentioned that the sun was low enough to keep me from sweltering in the heat, so I was going to change my clothes and head out. Elene piped up and said that she wanted to run with me -- this was a first. Tea and I both chuckled incredulously, but she insisted that she could run with me. Tea was ready to tell her, "No," but I said that she could come with me until she got tired, and then she could come back home. I told her that I was going to run to the bridge (20 minutes away), and I would not carry her home if she went further then she should. Tea translated for me to be sure that Elene understood the deal. She nodded in agreement and bounced off to find her sneakers.
Five minutes later, we walked out the front gate. Dog bounded out behind us, smiling a big dog-smile. I thought that maybe he would join us, but instead, he loped off into the cemetery across the road to pee on the gravestones and fence posts. I looked down at Elene who, at almost 8 years old, comes up to about my elbow and said, "Are you ready?" She gave me a bright-eyed nod, and we started down the road.
Since her legs are half the length of mine, I slowed my normal pace to a jog. Elene's legs were churning at the pace mine would usually be hitting. She looked up at me and smiled.
I expected her to tire about the time we reached the school (a half-mile away), but when we reached the school, I asked her if she was tired. She shook her head, still keeping pace with me. We ran on, greeting everyone who exclaimed in surprise to see Elene running with me. They are all used to seeing me out on the road, but not with Elene in tow.
When we got a mile down the road (a little less than halfway to the bridge), Elene started to get winded. I asked her again if she was tired. And again, she said no. I started thinking that she would be able to run to the bridge..... but back to the house? Probably not. I could also tell that she was not going to turn around on her own to go back home. I decided to turn around with her, run back to the house, drop her off, and go out for another couple of miles.
Another quarter-mile out, I told her that we were going to turn around and that I would run back with her. She didn't argue as we doubled back toward the house. She did point to her cheeks and ask (in English), "Is it red?" I said yes and asked if mine were, too. She said yes. (She rarely speaks to me in English even though she knows a lot. The exercise must have tightened up a connection between her brain and her tongue.)
We ran back to the house -- she was tired on the return run, but I encouraged her along. She was very proud of herself when we got back to the house. I congratulated her on a great run, and went back out to pick up the pace for my last two miles.
So, I may have a new running partner. She wants to run with me again tomorrow. I think it's great!
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Ice cream for all, but not tolerance
I've written before about how I always find kindred spirits everywhere I go. People who are like-minded, tolerant, open, and willing to put themselves in someone else's shoes. People who can think beyond their own individual situation and see something beyond themselves. People who have begun to see themselves in relation to this big, wide world -- our global community -- and understand the need for diversity and acceptance. This past weekend in Kazbegi was a wonderful experience of gathering different cultures together and finding commonality and like-mindedness there.
James, Katherine, and I had traveled back to Tbilisi with Mattias (our Belgian friend). Kieran (our Irish friend) arrived in the capital a few hours behind us, and we all met in the evening to prolong the great weekend with new and old friends.
After dinner, our global group decided that dessert was in order. We walked to the best ice-cream shop in the city. As we stood on the sidewalk amid the throng of Georgians out to enjoy the lovely, warm evening, an older man, obviously NOT Georgian stepped up to me and said, "You're speaking English! I'll talk to anyone I can find who is speaking English!"
His accent told me that he was North-American. He was probably 65 or so -- white hair sticking out from under his bright red baseball hat emblazoned with "CANADA" and a maple leaf. He was wearing a blue "FDNY" t-shirt, blue shorts, white socks pulled up to mid-calf, and sneakers. I smiled and said, "Hello," then pointing from his hat to his t-shirt, I added, "Are you Canadian or American?" He ignored my question (or just didn't hear me over his own thoughts) and went on talking about how he has been stopping and talking to anyone he can find who speaks English.
He asked us where we were all from. I started saying that some of us were American and was going to add that others were Belgian and Irish, but at "American," he interrupted me and asked where in the United States I was from. I told him I was from the Philadelphia area. His ensuing story about driving down to Philadelphia and D.C. from Toronto told us that he was Canadian.
We exchanged some pleasantries about the places in the U.S. that he had been, and then he wanted to know if we were in Georgia for rugby. The way he asked was more like an affirmative statement -- as if there would be no other reason for anyone being there. Aaaahh, no. He seemed a bit surprised that we didn't know that the U.S. and Canadian rugby teams were in Georgia for a two-week tournament -- his son plays for the Canadian team, and that was the only reason he was in Georgia.
He didn't have too much good to say about the country, and wanted to know, if not for rugby, why were we all in this backward country. When we told him that some of us were working here, one was doing research for his ph.D. dissertation, and the other was just traveling, he was only mildly interested.
He changed the topic of conversation to something that I can't remember -- I do remember watching James take over the replies with this man who kept inching closer and closer as if he were sharing confidential secrets that the Georgians passing by shouldn't hear. I was beginning to wish that he would say goodbye and let me finish my melting ice cream.
That was when he again changed the conversation. This time he stepped within a foot of my face (why is it always me?) and made a nebulous remark in low, hushed tones about how proud he was of what the U.S. had done. I looked at him blankly. Granted, I have been out of the country for over six months, but I do watch the news and read at least the headlines and sometimes full articles on the New York Times web site. I don't remember if I asked what he meant, or if he read my puzzled expression, but it came out that he meant the U.S. killing Osama Bin Laden.
Great. That was not a conversation... or rather, disagreement that I wanted to have with this man. I stood there silently, wondering what in the world I could say that would neither start an argument nor betray my pacifist beliefs. He went on and on about how good it is that the man is dead. I just looked at the ground while he rambled on, still at a loss for how to close this conversation politely and without offending his convictions. I tightened my lips and looked to the side in disagreement. I finally came up with something to say back to him, although I don't remember what it was -- I don't think I even acknowledged his statements about Bin Laden -- I think that I just told him that it was nice to meet him and wished his son's team luck in the tournament.
Later on, I thought about this man. On one hand, I believe that everyone is entitled to his own opinion. I have no right to tell anyone how they should think or what they should think. But on the other hand, I don't know what to do with intolerance, bigotry, egotistical nationalism, or hatred. If I really believe that every person should be able to express their feelings and thoughts, then someone who's beliefs completely go against mine has as much right to share them as I do my pacifistic and inclusive ones. The catch is that the minute I make any kind of statement that shows my tolerant attitude, I will be caught in an onslaught of angry, accusing, maligned arguments hurled at me, but meant for the offending party who is not present -- in this case, Bin Laden and the Taliban. There will be no mutual conversation. There can't be when one person is close-minded.
Whatever I said must have been diplomatic enough. The man smiled and went away happily eating his ice cream.
I don't understand people who believe that violence can solve anything.
But for every few kindred spirits that I find throughout the world, I run up against one or two people who are not. That is, who are not like-minded, not open, not tolerant, not accepting of diversity. Last evening, one such person found me and our group.
James, Katherine, and I had traveled back to Tbilisi with Mattias (our Belgian friend). Kieran (our Irish friend) arrived in the capital a few hours behind us, and we all met in the evening to prolong the great weekend with new and old friends.
After dinner, our global group decided that dessert was in order. We walked to the best ice-cream shop in the city. As we stood on the sidewalk amid the throng of Georgians out to enjoy the lovely, warm evening, an older man, obviously NOT Georgian stepped up to me and said, "You're speaking English! I'll talk to anyone I can find who is speaking English!"
His accent told me that he was North-American. He was probably 65 or so -- white hair sticking out from under his bright red baseball hat emblazoned with "CANADA" and a maple leaf. He was wearing a blue "FDNY" t-shirt, blue shorts, white socks pulled up to mid-calf, and sneakers. I smiled and said, "Hello," then pointing from his hat to his t-shirt, I added, "Are you Canadian or American?" He ignored my question (or just didn't hear me over his own thoughts) and went on talking about how he has been stopping and talking to anyone he can find who speaks English.
He asked us where we were all from. I started saying that some of us were American and was going to add that others were Belgian and Irish, but at "American," he interrupted me and asked where in the United States I was from. I told him I was from the Philadelphia area. His ensuing story about driving down to Philadelphia and D.C. from Toronto told us that he was Canadian.
We exchanged some pleasantries about the places in the U.S. that he had been, and then he wanted to know if we were in Georgia for rugby. The way he asked was more like an affirmative statement -- as if there would be no other reason for anyone being there. Aaaahh, no. He seemed a bit surprised that we didn't know that the U.S. and Canadian rugby teams were in Georgia for a two-week tournament -- his son plays for the Canadian team, and that was the only reason he was in Georgia.
He didn't have too much good to say about the country, and wanted to know, if not for rugby, why were we all in this backward country. When we told him that some of us were working here, one was doing research for his ph.D. dissertation, and the other was just traveling, he was only mildly interested.
He changed the topic of conversation to something that I can't remember -- I do remember watching James take over the replies with this man who kept inching closer and closer as if he were sharing confidential secrets that the Georgians passing by shouldn't hear. I was beginning to wish that he would say goodbye and let me finish my melting ice cream.
That was when he again changed the conversation. This time he stepped within a foot of my face (why is it always me?) and made a nebulous remark in low, hushed tones about how proud he was of what the U.S. had done. I looked at him blankly. Granted, I have been out of the country for over six months, but I do watch the news and read at least the headlines and sometimes full articles on the New York Times web site. I don't remember if I asked what he meant, or if he read my puzzled expression, but it came out that he meant the U.S. killing Osama Bin Laden.
Great. That was not a conversation... or rather, disagreement that I wanted to have with this man. I stood there silently, wondering what in the world I could say that would neither start an argument nor betray my pacifist beliefs. He went on and on about how good it is that the man is dead. I just looked at the ground while he rambled on, still at a loss for how to close this conversation politely and without offending his convictions. I tightened my lips and looked to the side in disagreement. I finally came up with something to say back to him, although I don't remember what it was -- I don't think I even acknowledged his statements about Bin Laden -- I think that I just told him that it was nice to meet him and wished his son's team luck in the tournament.
Later on, I thought about this man. On one hand, I believe that everyone is entitled to his own opinion. I have no right to tell anyone how they should think or what they should think. But on the other hand, I don't know what to do with intolerance, bigotry, egotistical nationalism, or hatred. If I really believe that every person should be able to express their feelings and thoughts, then someone who's beliefs completely go against mine has as much right to share them as I do my pacifistic and inclusive ones. The catch is that the minute I make any kind of statement that shows my tolerant attitude, I will be caught in an onslaught of angry, accusing, maligned arguments hurled at me, but meant for the offending party who is not present -- in this case, Bin Laden and the Taliban. There will be no mutual conversation. There can't be when one person is close-minded.
Whatever I said must have been diplomatic enough. The man smiled and went away happily eating his ice cream.
I don't understand people who believe that violence can solve anything.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Multicultural weekend continued
Since I have to teach on Monday morning, I was going to take the first marshutka out of Kazbegi on Sunday back to Tbilisi and catch the noon bus to Zugdidi so that I would be in time to get the last marshutka to Shamgona at 6 p.m. But on Saturday evening when everyone was talking about what to do Sunday morning before heading to Tbilisi in the early afternoon, they all decided to hire a driver to go up the Georgian Military Highway to the Russian border. (Foreigners can't cross the border, but we can at least see it.) It's something I had wanted to do, so I decided that I would take the overnight train back to Zugdidi to have the extra day with the group. On the train, I'll take a sleeping pill, put in my earplugs, and sleep..... then go to school...... then go to bed early on Monday night. It will be worth it.
Having the extra day with everyone (James, Katherine, Thomas, Mattias, Gil, and Kieran -- Maria had already left) meant another great day of mixed cultures that communicated through the common stream of English. Again around the breakfast table, we laughed and talked as if we had always known each other, often teasing each other for misusing words in one language or another.
The use of language got really interesting after breakfast when our group was getting ready to head out for the morning adventure.
I had just finished brushing my teeth while contemplating Mt. Kazbek's magnificent peak through the bathroom window, and I walked into the sitting room where everyone was gathered around Pitqa (our hostess) with two new house guests. James lit up -- "Ah! Stef! We need some Spanish translation!" The two new gentlemen were from Spain. They knew a little English and no Georgian, but Pitqa (who speaks a very little English) was having a hard time communicating with them.
Once I entered the conversation, the ring of translation went from Pitqa speaking in Georgian to James translating into English the pieces of Georgian I didn't understand. I then translated into Spanish for the two men. The men answered in Spanish which I translated into a mixture of Georgian and English with James' help picking up the rest of the Georgian that I couldn't say. What a circus!!
My brain felt like it was doing mental jumping jacks in three different languages, and I kept mixing them up. In my Spanish translation, Georgian words sneaked in. And a couple of times when I was translating back into Georgian for Pitqa, I slipped in some Spanish words. It was one of the most interesting, but mentally taxing conversations I've ever had!
It was another beautiful day in the Central Caucasus Mountains, and the drive to the Russian border was spectacular. It was worth another night sleeping on a train.....
Having the extra day with everyone (James, Katherine, Thomas, Mattias, Gil, and Kieran -- Maria had already left) meant another great day of mixed cultures that communicated through the common stream of English. Again around the breakfast table, we laughed and talked as if we had always known each other, often teasing each other for misusing words in one language or another.
The use of language got really interesting after breakfast when our group was getting ready to head out for the morning adventure.
I had just finished brushing my teeth while contemplating Mt. Kazbek's magnificent peak through the bathroom window, and I walked into the sitting room where everyone was gathered around Pitqa (our hostess) with two new house guests. James lit up -- "Ah! Stef! We need some Spanish translation!" The two new gentlemen were from Spain. They knew a little English and no Georgian, but Pitqa (who speaks a very little English) was having a hard time communicating with them.
Once I entered the conversation, the ring of translation went from Pitqa speaking in Georgian to James translating into English the pieces of Georgian I didn't understand. I then translated into Spanish for the two men. The men answered in Spanish which I translated into a mixture of Georgian and English with James' help picking up the rest of the Georgian that I couldn't say. What a circus!!
My brain felt like it was doing mental jumping jacks in three different languages, and I kept mixing them up. In my Spanish translation, Georgian words sneaked in. And a couple of times when I was translating back into Georgian for Pitqa, I slipped in some Spanish words. It was one of the most interesting, but mentally taxing conversations I've ever had!
It was another beautiful day in the Central Caucasus Mountains, and the drive to the Russian border was spectacular. It was worth another night sleeping on a train.....
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| River valley along the Georgian Military Highway -- about 10 kilometers from the Russian border. |
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| The end of a wonderful weekend full of blessings of every sort |
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Multicultural hike
Today was another spectacular day in Kazbegi. This is fast becoming one of my favorite places in the world, and today's hike helped to make it so.
After yesterday's hike, James, Katherine, and Maria opted for less elevation gain in their adventure for the day, so I didn't get to hang with them much today; but the rest of us wanted to try to get to one of the glaciers that is on Mt. Kazbek. A guide book said that it would be a ten-hour hike with an elevation gain of around 5,000 feet. So, at 10 o'clock, after a great breakfast at our guesthouse, I set out with Thomas, Mattias, and Gil to see how far we could go. The mountain weather forecast called for clear skies in the morning with possible rain/snow in the afternoon. We decided to set out toward the glacier and see how far we could get before the bad weather moved in.
Thankfully, the weather forecast was wrong. The entire day was clear and glorious.
We were able to get to the highest pass before Mt. Kazbek, but because of the amount of snow still on the ground, we couldn't reach the glacier. We saw it, and that was good enough.
It took us about four and a half hours to get from our guesthouse in town to the the pass. It would have taken two more hours to reach the glacier, but most of us weren't dressed quite well enough for a trek across so much snow. We were perfectly happy to view the mountain and the glacier from a distance.
There were so many moments during the hike today when I was completely blown away by the scenery. It was so spectacular, it was almost surreal -- it was too beautiful to be real. The funny thing about such grand places is that the brain can't comprehend the vastness nor distance nor depth nor height nor magnitude of what's sitting right there in front of you. The mountains were certainly real -- we huffed and puffed our way up to over 10,000 feet. I felt the effects of that reality. But visually, I couldn't grasp the distance or the volume of the over-15,000-foot peak in front of me. It was too big for me to comprehend.
I love those moments. Moments when the magnificence of nature makes me feel so very small.
One of the great parts of today's hike was the multicultural aspect of our ascent-group. Of course, I am American. Thomas is Dutch. Mattias is Belgian. Gil is Israeli. And half-way up to the pass, we were joined by Kieran, an Irish-man. A hiking party of five, all from different countries. What fun!
Our conversations were fascinating -- we talked about religion, politics, economics, education, human rights, national debts, and our various stories -- what we do, where we're from, where we've been, who we are, who we are becoming. With five different nationalities, our outlooks were all different from one another -- yet, we all found each other to be kindred spirits.
As we hiked along, engrossed in some deep topic of conversation, I noticed that one of the things that connected us all was language. We all speak multiple languages, but our common language was English, and that is what we spoke together. Some of the other languages came out now and then -- Mattias and Thomas spoke Dutch together. Gil sang in Hebrew. We all compared words in various languages that we know: Spanish, Russian, French, Portuguese, Georgian, Hebrew, and German. We all spoke English with different accents, but our communication was that much more special because of them. New words and phrases were learned and explained (it's amazing how anyplace can become a language classroom), and meanings and translations were discussed and compared in our various languages. But we kept coming back to English.
It made me think about a couple of things. First of all, how thankful I am that I was raised speaking one of the most desirable languages in the world. I often take for granted that I speak English, yet it is one of the languages that the rest of the world works very hard at learning. Secondly, I am so thankful to be here in Georgia, teaching this language to teachers and students who are going to be much better off for knowing it. I am making a difference in the lives of these people, and that is no small thing. How fortunate I am to have this opportunity to be a part of something so grand and vast with results much more far-reaching than I can begin to imagine.
It's as difficult to comprehend as the amazing scenery I saw today.
And, speaking of the amazing scenery.....
After yesterday's hike, James, Katherine, and Maria opted for less elevation gain in their adventure for the day, so I didn't get to hang with them much today; but the rest of us wanted to try to get to one of the glaciers that is on Mt. Kazbek. A guide book said that it would be a ten-hour hike with an elevation gain of around 5,000 feet. So, at 10 o'clock, after a great breakfast at our guesthouse, I set out with Thomas, Mattias, and Gil to see how far we could go. The mountain weather forecast called for clear skies in the morning with possible rain/snow in the afternoon. We decided to set out toward the glacier and see how far we could get before the bad weather moved in.
Thankfully, the weather forecast was wrong. The entire day was clear and glorious.
We were able to get to the highest pass before Mt. Kazbek, but because of the amount of snow still on the ground, we couldn't reach the glacier. We saw it, and that was good enough.
It took us about four and a half hours to get from our guesthouse in town to the the pass. It would have taken two more hours to reach the glacier, but most of us weren't dressed quite well enough for a trek across so much snow. We were perfectly happy to view the mountain and the glacier from a distance.
There were so many moments during the hike today when I was completely blown away by the scenery. It was so spectacular, it was almost surreal -- it was too beautiful to be real. The funny thing about such grand places is that the brain can't comprehend the vastness nor distance nor depth nor height nor magnitude of what's sitting right there in front of you. The mountains were certainly real -- we huffed and puffed our way up to over 10,000 feet. I felt the effects of that reality. But visually, I couldn't grasp the distance or the volume of the over-15,000-foot peak in front of me. It was too big for me to comprehend.
I love those moments. Moments when the magnificence of nature makes me feel so very small.
One of the great parts of today's hike was the multicultural aspect of our ascent-group. Of course, I am American. Thomas is Dutch. Mattias is Belgian. Gil is Israeli. And half-way up to the pass, we were joined by Kieran, an Irish-man. A hiking party of five, all from different countries. What fun!
Our conversations were fascinating -- we talked about religion, politics, economics, education, human rights, national debts, and our various stories -- what we do, where we're from, where we've been, who we are, who we are becoming. With five different nationalities, our outlooks were all different from one another -- yet, we all found each other to be kindred spirits.
As we hiked along, engrossed in some deep topic of conversation, I noticed that one of the things that connected us all was language. We all speak multiple languages, but our common language was English, and that is what we spoke together. Some of the other languages came out now and then -- Mattias and Thomas spoke Dutch together. Gil sang in Hebrew. We all compared words in various languages that we know: Spanish, Russian, French, Portuguese, Georgian, Hebrew, and German. We all spoke English with different accents, but our communication was that much more special because of them. New words and phrases were learned and explained (it's amazing how anyplace can become a language classroom), and meanings and translations were discussed and compared in our various languages. But we kept coming back to English.
It made me think about a couple of things. First of all, how thankful I am that I was raised speaking one of the most desirable languages in the world. I often take for granted that I speak English, yet it is one of the languages that the rest of the world works very hard at learning. Secondly, I am so thankful to be here in Georgia, teaching this language to teachers and students who are going to be much better off for knowing it. I am making a difference in the lives of these people, and that is no small thing. How fortunate I am to have this opportunity to be a part of something so grand and vast with results much more far-reaching than I can begin to imagine.
It's as difficult to comprehend as the amazing scenery I saw today.
And, speaking of the amazing scenery.....
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| Stepanstsminda Cathedral from the opposite side from where I saw it yesterday. Against the backdrop of the Caucasus Mountains, it is truly spectacular. |
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| The higher we hiked above the church, the more fantastic the view became -- wild horses, included. (The slope to the right of the church is what I hiked up yesterday. Steep.) |
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| As high as we went -- me, Thomas, Mattias, Gil, and Kieran in front of the glacier and Mt. Kazbek under that cloud..... |
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| It wouldn't be Georgia without a cross at a high-point. This cross sat in the pass at around 10,000 feet. |
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| Finally the clouds moved off of the peak of Mt. Kazbek -- me, Gil, Mattias, and Thomas posed for another photo with the amazing mountain. |
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| As we hiked down, the sky grew more and more clear. The peak of Kazbek was beautiful from the church at the end of the day -- a very satisfying day. |
Friday, May 27, 2011
Kazbegi -- Day 1
Wilderness.
That's the best word to describe this area of Georgia. There is nothing like huge, hulking mountains to make one feel small in this vast, amazing world. Kazbegi is, by far, my favorite place in this richly diverse country. It is my kind of place -- a place where hiking or mountain biking can be done on trails or anywhere else one pleases.
James, Katherine, Maria, and I met three guys on the marshutka on the way up here yesterday -- Gil from Israel, Thomas from the Netherlands, and Mattias from Belgium. We all ended up staying at the same guesthouse and hiked together today (except for Gil, he was hiking somewhere else). We all went to Gergeti Church, also called Stepanstsminda; an old church that is set up on a mountain in the middle of the Caucasus Range. It lies in the shadow of one of the highest mountains in this range, Mt. Kazbek. I had made mention of it earlier and said that it is the highest mountain in Europe. It's not. But at 16, 512 feet tall, it's big.
After hiking to the church, Thomas, Mattias and I decided to climb another mountain that was next to the church. It was fantastic. The weather was not the best today, so we couldn't see the peaks that remained shrouded by the fog and mist until this evening; but we still had some amazing views. The pictures don't even begin to show the grandeur of this place, but I am going to post some anyway. Just know that the scale does not translate!
That's the best word to describe this area of Georgia. There is nothing like huge, hulking mountains to make one feel small in this vast, amazing world. Kazbegi is, by far, my favorite place in this richly diverse country. It is my kind of place -- a place where hiking or mountain biking can be done on trails or anywhere else one pleases.
James, Katherine, Maria, and I met three guys on the marshutka on the way up here yesterday -- Gil from Israel, Thomas from the Netherlands, and Mattias from Belgium. We all ended up staying at the same guesthouse and hiked together today (except for Gil, he was hiking somewhere else). We all went to Gergeti Church, also called Stepanstsminda; an old church that is set up on a mountain in the middle of the Caucasus Range. It lies in the shadow of one of the highest mountains in this range, Mt. Kazbek. I had made mention of it earlier and said that it is the highest mountain in Europe. It's not. But at 16, 512 feet tall, it's big.
After hiking to the church, Thomas, Mattias and I decided to climb another mountain that was next to the church. It was fantastic. The weather was not the best today, so we couldn't see the peaks that remained shrouded by the fog and mist until this evening; but we still had some amazing views. The pictures don't even begin to show the grandeur of this place, but I am going to post some anyway. Just know that the scale does not translate!
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| Stepanstsminda (Holy Trinity Cathedral) |
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| Our group: Mattias, Thomas, me, Maria, James, and Katherine on the edge of the lawn by the church -- behind that bank of fog are some amazing mountains |
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| Me on the ridge opposite the church.... that little building on the mountain behind me.... |
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| Lovely little alpine flowers dotted the mountainsides despite the cold wind |
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| The rain in the valley drove us off the mountain sooner than we wanted to go |
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| From the highest point I hiked to today -- on the left is Stepanstsminda -- and on the left, the lower slopes of Mt. Kazbek |
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| Sunset over the mountains and Stepanstsminda |
It was an amazing day. And tomorrow is supposed to be clear.... hoping for another amazing day in the mountains. Until then.....
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Independence Day in Tbilisi
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| The beginning of the parade of military might |
This morning at eleven o'clock, James and Katherine and I found ourselves a spot on Rustaveli Street in Tbilisi close to the Parliament building for the Independence Day parade. I had the song "I.......love a parade...." running through my head even though I really don't love a parade. But I felt a little different about today's. It was a good cultural experience, and one that I won't forget. As an outside observer to a demonstration of finally winning long-wished-for peace and freedom, I couldn't help but be caught up in the energy of the day.
The police were out in force. And I mean, bus-loads of police in full riot-gear as well as the regular uniformed police. They blocked off several streets around the parade route and lined the edges of the street where the parade was to take place. President Saakashvili gave a speech that I didn't understand much of..... except for the words that kept repeating: "mshvidoba" (peace), "tavisupleba" (freedom), and "saqartvelo" (Georgia). After the president's address, a couple of other people spoke, the Georgian national anthem was sung, and then the parade started. Troop after troop of armed forces marched down the street to the beat of music and clapping and cheers. There must have been over a couple of thousand of soldiers who were present in the city today. There were men in all different uniforms, chanting different things that brought the desired impressive response from all who watched them march by.
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| I know what this little guy wants to be when he grows up.... |
Watching them all march past, I couldn't help but wonder about each one. Where is each one from? What is each one's story? Why are they in the military? Are they really willing to give their lives for this country? When will they have to actually fight? Are their loved ones worried about them? Then I noticed the little boy dressed in fatigues on the other side of the road. He was so taken with the passage of platoon after platoon of impressive, strong, disciplined soldiers. His mother was, too. It was obvious what he wants to be when he grows up.
Then came row after row after row of army vehicles. The more they came, the bigger they got. Massive, go-anywhere, armored cars and tanks fitted with huge guns that could obliterate anything. Impressive?
Yes.
But I struggled with the need for it all. Why can't we all just get along? Why do we need military might? Why can't we all live in peace with each other?
Of course I know the answers to my idealist's questions. But I still have to ask them.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Independence
For those of us who have grown up living in a country that has been free and well-established for centuries, a celebration of independence can feel like little more than an egotistical flexing of one's militaristic or nationalistic muscle. However, living in a place where true independence is only ten years old, celebration is much more than showy pomp and circumstance.
I do not purport to know much about the long, detailed, and very complex political history of Georgia. Actually, I know very little of it. I know that cave-dwellers, kings, legends, saints, and monks have played large parts in the early days of the region's development. I know that raids and conquests by group after group of Ottomans, Turks, Persians, Romans, and Russians (not necessarily in that order) have warred over it. I know that the political system has changed over millennia of existing civilizations from monarchies, dictatorships, republics, to the latest presidential-parliamentary republic. The vast amount of history, and by that, I mean number of years of settled civilization, makes it daunting to learn in six months. At first, I was completely clueless about anyone important in Georgia's history, but I finally recognize some names of great kings or important saints from centuries ago. I have tried getting a grasp on the recent political history, but it is incredibly complex.
I relay all of that to say that tomorrow is Independence Day. On May 26, 1945, Georgia was declared to be free at the conclusion of World War II. However, the country was absorbed by and fully controlled by the U.S.S.R. until 1991. At that time, with the crumbling of the Soviet Union, the country elected a president and parliamentary officials, but there was much dissent and unrest between those who supported staying under Russia's rule and those who wanted to become completely independent. It wasn't until the Rose Revolution in 2004 when the present Georgian president was elected, that the country has had any semblance of order and unity. And it is still not without political turmoil (Abkhazia and South Ossetia).
I will be taking the overnight train to Tbilisi tonight to head north to Kazbegi for the long weekend with my friends Katherine, James, and Maria. There are planned demonstrations and parades in the capital tomorrow. Despite the warnings that were sent from the U.S. Embassy, I want to see what Independence Day is like in the capital. As a pacifist, any show of militaristic strength doesn't sit well with me, but I want to see what it is all about anyway.
I'll post some photos and relate what I see.
I do not purport to know much about the long, detailed, and very complex political history of Georgia. Actually, I know very little of it. I know that cave-dwellers, kings, legends, saints, and monks have played large parts in the early days of the region's development. I know that raids and conquests by group after group of Ottomans, Turks, Persians, Romans, and Russians (not necessarily in that order) have warred over it. I know that the political system has changed over millennia of existing civilizations from monarchies, dictatorships, republics, to the latest presidential-parliamentary republic. The vast amount of history, and by that, I mean number of years of settled civilization, makes it daunting to learn in six months. At first, I was completely clueless about anyone important in Georgia's history, but I finally recognize some names of great kings or important saints from centuries ago. I have tried getting a grasp on the recent political history, but it is incredibly complex.
I relay all of that to say that tomorrow is Independence Day. On May 26, 1945, Georgia was declared to be free at the conclusion of World War II. However, the country was absorbed by and fully controlled by the U.S.S.R. until 1991. At that time, with the crumbling of the Soviet Union, the country elected a president and parliamentary officials, but there was much dissent and unrest between those who supported staying under Russia's rule and those who wanted to become completely independent. It wasn't until the Rose Revolution in 2004 when the present Georgian president was elected, that the country has had any semblance of order and unity. And it is still not without political turmoil (Abkhazia and South Ossetia).
I will be taking the overnight train to Tbilisi tonight to head north to Kazbegi for the long weekend with my friends Katherine, James, and Maria. There are planned demonstrations and parades in the capital tomorrow. Despite the warnings that were sent from the U.S. Embassy, I want to see what Independence Day is like in the capital. As a pacifist, any show of militaristic strength doesn't sit well with me, but I want to see what it is all about anyway.
I'll post some photos and relate what I see.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Turkeys of various kinds
Borrowing the male turkey did the job. The girls have been sitting on 18 eggs for the last few weeks, and nine of them hatched today. This afternoon, Tea brought a tiny, fuzzy turklet (my name for turkey chicks) to me cupped in her hands. I had never seen a freshly-hatched turkey before -- it looked a lot like a chicken-chick with a slightly stretched-out neck. Its feathers were still damp from its recent struggle against the shell that encased it only this morning. I took the tiny bird from Tea's hands and cradled it in mine. It was much more wiggly and vocal than the chicken-chicks. I didn't really like being held, so I gave it back to Tea so that she could put it back in the box with its mother.
I encountered a few other "turkeys" today.
A boy in mine and Tea's tenth grade class has been skipping our class lately. There is no real rule against skipping class -- well, there's a rule, but few of the school rules are enforced with any consistency. So he comes when he want to.... which has not been very often this last month. Tea has talked with his mother and the principal about it, but he still skips class. Today after he hung out outside during our class, Tea approached him and asked why he didn't come to class. He said that he had something that he had to do then. She told him that if he does not come to class and participate, then he can be assured that he will not be happy with the failing grade that he will receive at the end of the year.
"Turkey."
Kitten has claimed me as his very own person. He finally realized that being patted and held is not such a bad thing.... and now he won't leave me alone. He stretches up my leg with his skinny, black arms, claws digging in to get my attention. When he does that, I usually pick him up and carry him around for a little while. He nuzzles down into my arms, purring softly. If I sit someplace to read, it isn't long before he finds me and jumps up into my lap to sleep while I read. I love it that he wants to be held now -- except for when I am eating. He doesn't know the difference, though -- sitting at the kitchen table or sitting on the couch -- to him its all the same. The moment I sit down at the table, the little rascal jumps up onto my lap at least five times until I finally put him out of the kitchen and shut the door. But he just scampers out the front door, around the house, pulls open the back door to the kitchen with his claws of steel, and jumps onto my lap again.
"Turkey."
I ran today. The sun was hot, and it felt great. When I got to the bridge, I turned around to head back to the house. I wasn't paying attention to the stiff breeze that had just picked, and I turned to spit.... right into the wind blowing back at me.
"Turkey."
I encountered a few other "turkeys" today.
A boy in mine and Tea's tenth grade class has been skipping our class lately. There is no real rule against skipping class -- well, there's a rule, but few of the school rules are enforced with any consistency. So he comes when he want to.... which has not been very often this last month. Tea has talked with his mother and the principal about it, but he still skips class. Today after he hung out outside during our class, Tea approached him and asked why he didn't come to class. He said that he had something that he had to do then. She told him that if he does not come to class and participate, then he can be assured that he will not be happy with the failing grade that he will receive at the end of the year.
"Turkey."
Kitten has claimed me as his very own person. He finally realized that being patted and held is not such a bad thing.... and now he won't leave me alone. He stretches up my leg with his skinny, black arms, claws digging in to get my attention. When he does that, I usually pick him up and carry him around for a little while. He nuzzles down into my arms, purring softly. If I sit someplace to read, it isn't long before he finds me and jumps up into my lap to sleep while I read. I love it that he wants to be held now -- except for when I am eating. He doesn't know the difference, though -- sitting at the kitchen table or sitting on the couch -- to him its all the same. The moment I sit down at the table, the little rascal jumps up onto my lap at least five times until I finally put him out of the kitchen and shut the door. But he just scampers out the front door, around the house, pulls open the back door to the kitchen with his claws of steel, and jumps onto my lap again.
"Turkey."
I ran today. The sun was hot, and it felt great. When I got to the bridge, I turned around to head back to the house. I wasn't paying attention to the stiff breeze that had just picked, and I turned to spit.... right into the wind blowing back at me.
"Turkey."
Monday, May 23, 2011
History and mystery
The weight of age is palpable in some places in the world.
I have felt it in the jungles of Guatemala where the very air pulses with life that has inhaled and exhaled for millennia -- where the pyramids of the ancient Mayans rise out of the tangle of vines and trees that alone carry the secret of a culture that disappeared without explanation.
I have felt it in the ancient ruins of Rome where marble and granite columns still stand that were witness to the birth of modern governmental systems -- where civilization centered itself for centuries.
I have felt it in coastal fortresses of Ireland and Northern Ireland where wild waves relate savage stories of prehistoric conquests to the rugged rocks of the untamed shore -- where some of the earliest legends originated.
I have felt it in the tombs of pharaohs in Egypt's Nile Valley where the deep silence sealed into the chambers creeps along the walls and ceilings giving one the feeling that the characters in the paintings on the walls are pausing in the middle of a breath until the intrusion of the living passes.
And most recently, I felt it in the mountain forest of Svaneti here in Georgia where mystery hangs in the mists and mixes with the history that flows in the rivers to the sea.
Years and history have a way of leaving traces behind that are perceptible to the sensitive and observant -- those willing to listen to the silent stories and absorb the residual presence left over from bygone eras and ancient times. These are places where inspiration takes hold and magic feels possible.
Georgia has remnants of ancient civilizations that can be dated back to the Stone Age. In museums in Kutaisi and Sighnaghi, I saw artifacts from 2,000 BC from these ancient settlements -- farming implements, weapons, kitchen utensils, pots, glass and stone beads, and wine-making instruments.
Age also marks the names of Georgia. The capital of Georgia lies in a region called "Kartli" -- the Georgian language is "Qartuli," and the name of the country (in Georgian), "Saqartvelo." These words all derive from the name of one of Noah's great-grandsons, Karthlos, from whom the Georgians claim to be descendants. (Yes, Noah from the Bible -- as in Noah and the Ark -- Mt. Ararat is not too far south in Armenia or Turkey, depending on who you ask....)
Legend and myth have grown out of the ancient civilizations of Georgia -- Jason and the Argonauts sailed to Colchis to look for the Golden Fleece, according to classical legend. The area of Georgia that lies along the coast of the Black Sea was called "Colchis" from 900 BC until 65 BC when Pompey pulled it into the Roman Empire after the Third Mithridatic War. It was to this region that the Greek prince, Jason came in search of the fabled Golden Fleece. The golden fleece was an actual occurrence in the mountains in Georgia. People used to put sheepskins in the fast-flowing rivers to catch the particles of gold washing down out of the mountains. It is said that some sheepskins became so full of gold, they looked like the fleece was shorn from a solid gold sheep.
Enough of the history lesson -- back to the point of this post....
While hiking in the forest in the Svan mountains, I again experienced the sense of being in a very old place. It reminded me of scenes in The Lord of the Rings movies -- I know that they were filmed in New Zealand and that Middle Earth is fictitious, but the vast, untamed expanse of forest and mountains made me feel like I was hiking back in another time and another world where extraordinary creatures lived. I could envision hobbits, wizards, dwarves, elves, and ents making their homes in a place like that. A presence I sensed in the air may have been the bears that Zaza and I were looking for -- or maybe the woods really is inhabited by elves and sprites. The trees -- especially the old ones, gave off an aura of..... I don't know what to call it.... not quite consciousness -- but maybe awareness -- knowing -- of having seen myriad sunrises and Winters and rains and sunsets and meteor-showers and storms with lightening-strikes and earthquakes and Springs and heat waves and floods and insignificant passages of man and beast. Sentient beings that impassively observe each change and season as the eons creep past.
It is a place where the magical is believable and the impossible probable.
I have felt it in the jungles of Guatemala where the very air pulses with life that has inhaled and exhaled for millennia -- where the pyramids of the ancient Mayans rise out of the tangle of vines and trees that alone carry the secret of a culture that disappeared without explanation.
I have felt it in the ancient ruins of Rome where marble and granite columns still stand that were witness to the birth of modern governmental systems -- where civilization centered itself for centuries.
I have felt it in coastal fortresses of Ireland and Northern Ireland where wild waves relate savage stories of prehistoric conquests to the rugged rocks of the untamed shore -- where some of the earliest legends originated.
I have felt it in the tombs of pharaohs in Egypt's Nile Valley where the deep silence sealed into the chambers creeps along the walls and ceilings giving one the feeling that the characters in the paintings on the walls are pausing in the middle of a breath until the intrusion of the living passes.
And most recently, I felt it in the mountain forest of Svaneti here in Georgia where mystery hangs in the mists and mixes with the history that flows in the rivers to the sea.
Years and history have a way of leaving traces behind that are perceptible to the sensitive and observant -- those willing to listen to the silent stories and absorb the residual presence left over from bygone eras and ancient times. These are places where inspiration takes hold and magic feels possible.
Georgia has remnants of ancient civilizations that can be dated back to the Stone Age. In museums in Kutaisi and Sighnaghi, I saw artifacts from 2,000 BC from these ancient settlements -- farming implements, weapons, kitchen utensils, pots, glass and stone beads, and wine-making instruments.
Age also marks the names of Georgia. The capital of Georgia lies in a region called "Kartli" -- the Georgian language is "Qartuli," and the name of the country (in Georgian), "Saqartvelo." These words all derive from the name of one of Noah's great-grandsons, Karthlos, from whom the Georgians claim to be descendants. (Yes, Noah from the Bible -- as in Noah and the Ark -- Mt. Ararat is not too far south in Armenia or Turkey, depending on who you ask....)
Legend and myth have grown out of the ancient civilizations of Georgia -- Jason and the Argonauts sailed to Colchis to look for the Golden Fleece, according to classical legend. The area of Georgia that lies along the coast of the Black Sea was called "Colchis" from 900 BC until 65 BC when Pompey pulled it into the Roman Empire after the Third Mithridatic War. It was to this region that the Greek prince, Jason came in search of the fabled Golden Fleece. The golden fleece was an actual occurrence in the mountains in Georgia. People used to put sheepskins in the fast-flowing rivers to catch the particles of gold washing down out of the mountains. It is said that some sheepskins became so full of gold, they looked like the fleece was shorn from a solid gold sheep.
Enough of the history lesson -- back to the point of this post....
While hiking in the forest in the Svan mountains, I again experienced the sense of being in a very old place. It reminded me of scenes in The Lord of the Rings movies -- I know that they were filmed in New Zealand and that Middle Earth is fictitious, but the vast, untamed expanse of forest and mountains made me feel like I was hiking back in another time and another world where extraordinary creatures lived. I could envision hobbits, wizards, dwarves, elves, and ents making their homes in a place like that. A presence I sensed in the air may have been the bears that Zaza and I were looking for -- or maybe the woods really is inhabited by elves and sprites. The trees -- especially the old ones, gave off an aura of..... I don't know what to call it.... not quite consciousness -- but maybe awareness -- knowing -- of having seen myriad sunrises and Winters and rains and sunsets and meteor-showers and storms with lightening-strikes and earthquakes and Springs and heat waves and floods and insignificant passages of man and beast. Sentient beings that impassively observe each change and season as the eons creep past.
It is a place where the magical is believable and the impossible probable.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Svan road trip
The village I live in is the only island in the republic. This dam holds back the River Enguiri from completely inundating the village. The dam lies in the river valley at the edge of Svaneti. When water is released from the dam, kayakers ride the river.
The mountains of Svaneti are full of natural springs -- many of them are mineral springs. With so much water coming out of the mountains, there are waterfalls everywhere. We stopped at a couple different ones to walk around and take pictures. Tea and I liked this one -- it came hurtling down the mountain with real purpose!
Zaza (Tea's cousin), Teona (Tea's sister), Tea, and I hiked up along this stream that tumbled over rocks through this lush gorge on its way to the Enguiri. The rock wall on the left called to me..... my hands were sweating as I visually mapped out routes to climb. Boy, do I miss climbing.
We took a picnic lunch with us and had enough food to feed about thirty people (Tea always puts out way more food than is needed.) Koba and Paata (not in the photo) built a fire, cut up some chicken, and roasted shish-ka-bobs while we ladies ate fruit, veggies, and the ever-present khatchapuri. This land where we hung out belongs to Zaza. The cows belong to a neighbor.
Zaza and I went for a hike up the mountain for a couple of hours. There were no trails, only our own choices for which direction to take -- we went up! The view of the river was incredible. The water is low right now, but the demarcation between the rock and the trees is the high-water line when the river is full. Tea and I wondered at the amount of water it would take to fill the valley to that line -- incredible.
We really wanted to see a bear on our hike, so we were constantly looking for signs of where they might be. We did find a den in the rocks at one spot, but it hadn't been slept in for a while. Some of the tracks we found were fresh and a couple of rotten trees had recently been rooted through for bugs. But no bear. Zaza was checking out these rocks for signs.
This massive beetle was so beautiful..... and hungry! It was eating a snail, and no matter how hard we pulled on the body, it wouldn't let go.
At this moment, the sun was out -- but in the mountains, the weather changed about every ten minutes -- rain, no rain, drizzle, sunshine, then more rain.... When the sun shone, the air itself was green from the moss, ferns, and spring-green leaves on the trees. So much life -- it was tangible in the air (almost as much as in the jungle....).
Zaza estimated this massive evergreen to be about 300 years old.
The forest reminded me of a mixture of the Pacific Northwest and the Rockies -- groves of Aspens, but everything else covered in thick, cushy moss.
Me, Zaza, Tea, Koba (in the front), Paata, and Teona (in the back) -- my fellow-adventurers! I was so glad to be able to go with them someplace other than their normal destinations (the bank or the market or the library). Spending the day out in the beauty of nature was a great experience for all of us.
The mist and clouds rolled in from the Black Sea, bringing humid rain. A cloak of fog shrouded the mountains and forests in layers mystery as thick as the history of this region. The weight of age hung heavily in the air as we headed back home -- tired and very satisfied.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Introduction to Svaneti
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| Mountains of Svaneti |
At 7:30 a.m., Tea, Koba, Teona (Tea's sister), Zaza (Tea's cousin), and I piled into Paata's SUV (Paata is a neighbor) and drove north for a little over an hour to spend the day in Svaneti. We stopped at a dam that holds back our river, the Enguiri, stopped to see a couple of waterfalls and a spot where Zaza has land along the upper section of the Enguiri. We had a huge picnic lunch, and despite a little misty rain, Zaza and I went for an amazing hike up one of the mountains -- no trails -- no map -- no GPS -- just hiking up and up and up. There were signs of bear everywhere -- claw-marks, prints, torn-up trees, a den -- but we didn't see any bears. We were both bummed. We did see an awesome hawk, a huge, blue beetle eating a snail, lots of beautiful flowers and waterfalls, and 200-300-year-old trees. And then we hiked down and down and down! Driving back out of the mountains, a thick fog moved in, bringing cold air and harder rain. We were all so glad that the heavier rain held off while we enjoyed our adventure.
I was so glad to be able to travel with Tea -- she had been to Svaneti a very long time ago, but didn't remember much of it. We had a great time exclaiming over the beauty of everything we saw. Sharing it with her was a great, great experience.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Just when I was having a good day
Today my mood was finally back up. Several good things happened today.... until my run.
I didn't have to go to school early this morning because our schedule is all screwy this week and next. The seniors are taking their final exams, and a few of the classrooms are being used as testing sites only. Since we don't have any extra classrooms, the school day has been doubled -- junior high and high school classes at regular times but in the elementary classrooms, and the younger grades in their rooms after that. Each day's schedule is a surprise. Gotta love flexibility!
With that extra time this morning, I had an extra cup of coffee.
One of my little sweeties gave me a bouquet of snapdragons and roses.
Dance class was a little short, so I was able to catch the earlier marshutka to town to run some errands. I thought that I was going to have to go straight from dance class to town and rush around to get my errands done before the last marshutka left for Shamgona, but class ended a little early, so I got to town a bit earlier than expected. With more time to spend in town, I found two new books to read at the library -- The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love by Oscar Hijuelos and All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy. I love having new books to read.
When I came back from town, I cracked Tea up so hard, she was crying and almost fell on the floor. (I love making her laugh!) I was imitating how ridiculously bouncy and rocking our "new" marshutka is -- it is taller than some of the other ones, making it top-heavy. Needless to say, it doesn't handle the bumps very well. So, I showed Tea how everyone looked bouncing and jostling around, and how they looked trying to walk down the aisle while the vehicle was still in motion -- she was dying of laughter!
Tea's cousin Zaza came by today to invite us to go with him to Svaneti tomorrow. Svaneti is one of the places in Georgia that I have been wanting to see, but it is not easily accessible in the winter. Now that it has been warmer for a while, the road will be passable up in the mountains. I get to travel again with Tea and Koba, and Zaza and Teona (Tea's sister) are coming, too. It is supposed to be one of the most beautiful regions in the country.
All the good things that were swirling around in my mind while I ran came crashing down around me when I stopped to talk to Eka. I haven't seen her for a couple of months, and she said to me, "You got fat!" And she pinched my cheek. Not cool. I'm already hating the way I look right now, and that was the last thing I needed to hear. All I want to do when I get home is run and ride and run some more -- then go climbing -- and detox my body and eat whole-grain foods and veggies -- no sugar, no oil, no fried anything, no white bread, no full-fat cheese or yogurt -- back to my preferred diet. I really wanted to punch her in the face for saying something so rude -- but for Georgians, saying something like that is not considered rude. Instead of showing how upset her comment made me, I ignored it and asked her how her university classes are going. But the comment stuck like a burr in my mind. For the rest of my run, I kept telling myself that I can lose the weight I have gained once I go home. Grrrrrrr.
I didn't have to go to school early this morning because our schedule is all screwy this week and next. The seniors are taking their final exams, and a few of the classrooms are being used as testing sites only. Since we don't have any extra classrooms, the school day has been doubled -- junior high and high school classes at regular times but in the elementary classrooms, and the younger grades in their rooms after that. Each day's schedule is a surprise. Gotta love flexibility!
With that extra time this morning, I had an extra cup of coffee.
One of my little sweeties gave me a bouquet of snapdragons and roses.
Dance class was a little short, so I was able to catch the earlier marshutka to town to run some errands. I thought that I was going to have to go straight from dance class to town and rush around to get my errands done before the last marshutka left for Shamgona, but class ended a little early, so I got to town a bit earlier than expected. With more time to spend in town, I found two new books to read at the library -- The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love by Oscar Hijuelos and All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy. I love having new books to read.
When I came back from town, I cracked Tea up so hard, she was crying and almost fell on the floor. (I love making her laugh!) I was imitating how ridiculously bouncy and rocking our "new" marshutka is -- it is taller than some of the other ones, making it top-heavy. Needless to say, it doesn't handle the bumps very well. So, I showed Tea how everyone looked bouncing and jostling around, and how they looked trying to walk down the aisle while the vehicle was still in motion -- she was dying of laughter!
Tea's cousin Zaza came by today to invite us to go with him to Svaneti tomorrow. Svaneti is one of the places in Georgia that I have been wanting to see, but it is not easily accessible in the winter. Now that it has been warmer for a while, the road will be passable up in the mountains. I get to travel again with Tea and Koba, and Zaza and Teona (Tea's sister) are coming, too. It is supposed to be one of the most beautiful regions in the country.
All the good things that were swirling around in my mind while I ran came crashing down around me when I stopped to talk to Eka. I haven't seen her for a couple of months, and she said to me, "You got fat!" And she pinched my cheek. Not cool. I'm already hating the way I look right now, and that was the last thing I needed to hear. All I want to do when I get home is run and ride and run some more -- then go climbing -- and detox my body and eat whole-grain foods and veggies -- no sugar, no oil, no fried anything, no white bread, no full-fat cheese or yogurt -- back to my preferred diet. I really wanted to punch her in the face for saying something so rude -- but for Georgians, saying something like that is not considered rude. Instead of showing how upset her comment made me, I ignored it and asked her how her university classes are going. But the comment stuck like a burr in my mind. For the rest of my run, I kept telling myself that I can lose the weight I have gained once I go home. Grrrrrrr.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Detaching
I feel it happening already.
Monday was a rough day. I was in a bad mood all day long, although I tried hard not to show it. It was the day following two nights spent sleeping on the train to and from Tbilisi, and upon our (Tea, Koba, Tamari and my) return to Shamgona, we were ushered into Tamari's house at 6:30 a.m. for a congratulatory suphra. I dislike suphras anytime -- the constant hounding to eat and drink -- the smell of homemade wine that is too sour to enjoy and tcha-tcha that is downright horrid -- the loud toasts that grow louder the more the men drink -- the smoking with no concern for any non-smokers at the table. And I completely dislike mornings -- put both together, and the combination is enough to put me into one foul mood.
On the way to school that morning after a quick face-wash and clothes-change post-suphra, two of my eighth-grade girls joined me on the road. I didn't want to walk with anyone -- I really wanted a few minutes to myself before starting the school-day, but I smiled and fell in alongside them anyway. One of the girls looked at me and, in a pained voice asked me, "Are you sorry [British for 'sad'] to be going back to America soon?" The sarcastic, slightly caustic laugh that escaped my lips had been growing all morning. I couldn't keep it back.
"No," I answered, rather sardonically.
"Why?" came the usual Georgian reply to any answer that doesn't jive with their thinking.
"That's my home. That's where my family and my friends are." I was trying hard to hide my exasperation. I felt like a little black rain cloud was camped out over my head, blocking the positive energy from the day's radiant sunshine. The girls must have noticed it, because they let me walk on ahead, alone.
The rest of this week, I feel like I've reverted back to stage two of culture shock -- annoyance and irritability. I am sick of being stared at. I am sick of being called a "Kargi gogo" (Good girl). I am sick of eating bread and cheese at every meal that have caused me to gain a good twenty pounds. I am sick of feeling like nothing is ever really clean. I am sick of people who don't know any more than my name telling me that they love me.
I keep wondering if I sould start packing for home. But I know that wouldn't help a bit. It would probably send me into a faster, tighter negative spiral. Not yet knowing when I will be leaving is driving me crazy.
As a result of these tough days, I have felt myself slowly detaching from the connections that I have made here (that is, with everyone except Tea). Inwardly, I have taken a step or two back from the rest of the village and my life here. There is a little more distance (figuratively) between me and the other teachers at school. I have pulled back from the culture that I had immersed myself into. I am not trying to assimilate into any extra avenues of Georgian life. I'm still doing my job. I'm still working with my co-teachers to prepare them for their certification exams. I still hang out with Tea and have actually started asserting myself in the kitchen even more -- doing the dishes, cleaning up, shooing out the cats and chickens, sweeping -- but it is with a different feeling. I don't know how else to explain it but to say that it feels like I am projecting my home-to-come onto my present placement.
Detachment is a strange feeling. Proximity is still there, but connectedness is not. I know that the feeling will only get stronger before I leave -- limbo -- floating -- drifting -- in-between -- disengaged -- isolated -- withdrawn.
Leaving won't be easy.
Monday was a rough day. I was in a bad mood all day long, although I tried hard not to show it. It was the day following two nights spent sleeping on the train to and from Tbilisi, and upon our (Tea, Koba, Tamari and my) return to Shamgona, we were ushered into Tamari's house at 6:30 a.m. for a congratulatory suphra. I dislike suphras anytime -- the constant hounding to eat and drink -- the smell of homemade wine that is too sour to enjoy and tcha-tcha that is downright horrid -- the loud toasts that grow louder the more the men drink -- the smoking with no concern for any non-smokers at the table. And I completely dislike mornings -- put both together, and the combination is enough to put me into one foul mood.
On the way to school that morning after a quick face-wash and clothes-change post-suphra, two of my eighth-grade girls joined me on the road. I didn't want to walk with anyone -- I really wanted a few minutes to myself before starting the school-day, but I smiled and fell in alongside them anyway. One of the girls looked at me and, in a pained voice asked me, "Are you sorry [British for 'sad'] to be going back to America soon?" The sarcastic, slightly caustic laugh that escaped my lips had been growing all morning. I couldn't keep it back.
"No," I answered, rather sardonically.
"Why?" came the usual Georgian reply to any answer that doesn't jive with their thinking.
"That's my home. That's where my family and my friends are." I was trying hard to hide my exasperation. I felt like a little black rain cloud was camped out over my head, blocking the positive energy from the day's radiant sunshine. The girls must have noticed it, because they let me walk on ahead, alone.
The rest of this week, I feel like I've reverted back to stage two of culture shock -- annoyance and irritability. I am sick of being stared at. I am sick of being called a "Kargi gogo" (Good girl). I am sick of eating bread and cheese at every meal that have caused me to gain a good twenty pounds. I am sick of feeling like nothing is ever really clean. I am sick of people who don't know any more than my name telling me that they love me.
I keep wondering if I sould start packing for home. But I know that wouldn't help a bit. It would probably send me into a faster, tighter negative spiral. Not yet knowing when I will be leaving is driving me crazy.
As a result of these tough days, I have felt myself slowly detaching from the connections that I have made here (that is, with everyone except Tea). Inwardly, I have taken a step or two back from the rest of the village and my life here. There is a little more distance (figuratively) between me and the other teachers at school. I have pulled back from the culture that I had immersed myself into. I am not trying to assimilate into any extra avenues of Georgian life. I'm still doing my job. I'm still working with my co-teachers to prepare them for their certification exams. I still hang out with Tea and have actually started asserting myself in the kitchen even more -- doing the dishes, cleaning up, shooing out the cats and chickens, sweeping -- but it is with a different feeling. I don't know how else to explain it but to say that it feels like I am projecting my home-to-come onto my present placement.
Detachment is a strange feeling. Proximity is still there, but connectedness is not. I know that the feeling will only get stronger before I leave -- limbo -- floating -- drifting -- in-between -- disengaged -- isolated -- withdrawn.
Leaving won't be easy.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Avian acrobats
The weather the last few days has been absolutely wonderful. This afternoon, Tea, Koba, "Our Grandmother," and I sat out on the front porch for a little while enjoying everything -- the sunshine, the warm air, Kitten purring in my lap (he has decided that he loves being held now), thirty or so chicks pecking around the yard, and the birds singing in the hazelnut orchard. Suddenly, in swooped the avian acrobats -- the swallows.
Swallows are one of my favorite birds. If I could fly, I would fly like a swallow -- death-defying, hair-raising, and just plain fast -- that would suit me perfectly.
Have you ever watched a swallow? I have spent quite a bit of time watching them since they returned for the warm seasons -- I don't know where they were in the winter, but they weren't here. But now they are all over the village. There are several that live in the trees in one yard that I pass on my way to and from school and another group who have taken up residence under the eaves of the porch of the lower house. I have lots of opportunities to observe how they fly.
They remind me of two things -- roller coasters and stunt pilots.
As I walked home from school yesterday, I watched two swallows playing in the air over the road and the yards on either side. As they pitched and rolled and swerved and swooped while chasing each other, it looked like they were strapped into some invisible high-speed roller coaster -- complete with corkscrews and loop-the-loops. Then they split up (the coaster must have ended), and started flying independently, but still playing around in the same space. This is what reminded me of stunt pilots. They flew low over the ground at each other, breaking away at the very last second when they would have collided head-on. Then they banked hard, back over the road and climbed straight up, up, up -- then suddenly stalled, wings still spread, tilted on end, and fell toward the earth, pulling up out of the dive just in time to glide inches above the road.
If bird-species each had a theme song, the swallows' song would be Kenny Loggin's "Danger Zone" straight out of "Top Gun."
Swallows are one of my favorite birds. If I could fly, I would fly like a swallow -- death-defying, hair-raising, and just plain fast -- that would suit me perfectly.
Have you ever watched a swallow? I have spent quite a bit of time watching them since they returned for the warm seasons -- I don't know where they were in the winter, but they weren't here. But now they are all over the village. There are several that live in the trees in one yard that I pass on my way to and from school and another group who have taken up residence under the eaves of the porch of the lower house. I have lots of opportunities to observe how they fly.
They remind me of two things -- roller coasters and stunt pilots.
As I walked home from school yesterday, I watched two swallows playing in the air over the road and the yards on either side. As they pitched and rolled and swerved and swooped while chasing each other, it looked like they were strapped into some invisible high-speed roller coaster -- complete with corkscrews and loop-the-loops. Then they split up (the coaster must have ended), and started flying independently, but still playing around in the same space. This is what reminded me of stunt pilots. They flew low over the ground at each other, breaking away at the very last second when they would have collided head-on. Then they banked hard, back over the road and climbed straight up, up, up -- then suddenly stalled, wings still spread, tilted on end, and fell toward the earth, pulling up out of the dive just in time to glide inches above the road.
If bird-species each had a theme song, the swallows' song would be Kenny Loggin's "Danger Zone" straight out of "Top Gun."
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Little Miss Muffet
Most nursery rhymes must have been written back during England and America's days of villagers, milk maids, shepherds, and farmers. When I walk around Shamgona, I often think of those rhymes that meant little to me before living here --
"Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn..."
(If the cow is in the corn, you won't have much corn for very long....)
"Baa, baa, Black Sheep, have you any wool?
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Three bags full."
(And grandma can spin the wool into yarn and knit you a new sweater....)
"Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her --
Put her in a pumpkin shell and there he kept her very well."
(The pumpkins that are grown here have shells so thick that if a pumpkin were big enough, one could certainly live in the shell!)
But the one that runs through my mind the most often is --
"Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider who sat down beside her and frightened Miss Muffet away."
In fact, I say this rhyme to myself every other day when I do the household chore that I have claimed as my own.
Back in the middle of winter, I tried making cheese -- a job that has to be done every two days. Not everyone can do it well, and since, at my first attempt, Tea admitted that I do it better than she does, I told her that it would be my job from now on. She was more than happy to relinquish this time-consuming chore that she dislikes -- I love it! Maybe because it's something novel to me -- but I don't think that is the reason. I love it because it is a very tactile job.
The initial stage is the one that I like the best -- the first plunge into the coagulated semi-solid of heated milk with the rennet enzyme added -- silky, smooth, and soft. I run my hands through the pot, breaking up the tofu-like block. The texture immediately changes into small, chunky pieces -- still soft and gelatinous. These are the curds that start to separate from the whey. (This is when I run through "Little Miss Muffet" in my mind.)
When I have squished all the large pieces through my fingers, I start to gather the curds from the opposite side of the pot. Slowly, I pull the solids forward and gently hold them for a minute before pulling more curds forward and gently pressing them into the loose lump. I do this motion several times until all the stray pieces of curd floating in the whey have been gathered together.
At this point, I start constricting the lump of curds -- slowly and gently at first. In the first several minutes of this stage, there is little cohesion to the ball of cheese that is beginning to form. A heavy hand would make the form burst apart. With little more than the weight of my hands, I compress the curds like a testing a memory-foam mattress. I let my hand sink into the surface, then move it an inch or two, and let it sink down again -- over and over, both hands slowly, steadily shrinking the size of the form.
Once the ball has been compressed about half-way, the texture changes -- it becomes rubbery, allowing me to add more pressure to the surface, which changes the texture even further -- more rubbery -- add more pressure -- more rubbery -- more pressure. And over, and over, and over.
Depending on how warm the milk was when I started the process (or if the pan is on the stove during the process), it can take up to twenty minutes to get the ball of cheese compressed as far as it will go. The warmer, the better -- the curds bind together more quickly.
Once the ball is solid and holds together, I lift the cheese out of the whey, and let it drain. I turn the ball around and around, gently pressing on the soft spots to release any liquid still trapped inside. It can take ten or fifteen minutes to drain out all the whey still trapped inside the cheese. I like to drain as much out as I can -- the drier the ball is, the better the cheese is the next day.
And there you have it -- fresh cheese!
In a few hours, it can either be squished-up for khatchapuri, or it can be sliced up, covered with boiling water until it is stringy and melty, then drained, kneaded like bread dough a couple of times, coated with salt a,nd allowed to sit for a couple of hours -- that's called Sulguni Cheese. It's the best cheese around!
Little Miss Muffet would like Sulguni better than plain old curds and whey!
"Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn..."
(If the cow is in the corn, you won't have much corn for very long....)
"Baa, baa, Black Sheep, have you any wool?
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Three bags full."
(And grandma can spin the wool into yarn and knit you a new sweater....)
"Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her --
Put her in a pumpkin shell and there he kept her very well."
(The pumpkins that are grown here have shells so thick that if a pumpkin were big enough, one could certainly live in the shell!)
But the one that runs through my mind the most often is --
"Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider who sat down beside her and frightened Miss Muffet away."
In fact, I say this rhyme to myself every other day when I do the household chore that I have claimed as my own.
Back in the middle of winter, I tried making cheese -- a job that has to be done every two days. Not everyone can do it well, and since, at my first attempt, Tea admitted that I do it better than she does, I told her that it would be my job from now on. She was more than happy to relinquish this time-consuming chore that she dislikes -- I love it! Maybe because it's something novel to me -- but I don't think that is the reason. I love it because it is a very tactile job.
 |
| First stage of breaking up the viscous semi-solid |
When I have squished all the large pieces through my fingers, I start to gather the curds from the opposite side of the pot. Slowly, I pull the solids forward and gently hold them for a minute before pulling more curds forward and gently pressing them into the loose lump. I do this motion several times until all the stray pieces of curd floating in the whey have been gathered together.
At this point, I start constricting the lump of curds -- slowly and gently at first. In the first several minutes of this stage, there is little cohesion to the ball of cheese that is beginning to form. A heavy hand would make the form burst apart. With little more than the weight of my hands, I compress the curds like a testing a memory-foam mattress. I let my hand sink into the surface, then move it an inch or two, and let it sink down again -- over and over, both hands slowly, steadily shrinking the size of the form.
 |
| The form starts becoming solid |
Depending on how warm the milk was when I started the process (or if the pan is on the stove during the process), it can take up to twenty minutes to get the ball of cheese compressed as far as it will go. The warmer, the better -- the curds bind together more quickly.
 |
| Cheese! |
And there you have it -- fresh cheese!
In a few hours, it can either be squished-up for khatchapuri, or it can be sliced up, covered with boiling water until it is stringy and melty, then drained, kneaded like bread dough a couple of times, coated with salt a,nd allowed to sit for a couple of hours -- that's called Sulguni Cheese. It's the best cheese around!
Little Miss Muffet would like Sulguni better than plain old curds and whey!
Monday, May 16, 2011
Worthwhile
There are always a few moments in any school year, no matter how difficult, that make all the work and the headaches worthwhile. This past weekend, Tea and I experienced an event that encapsulated this joint-worthwhile year.
Back during Christmas break, Tea and I helped one of our students, a tenth-grader named Tamari write an essay for a nation-wide academic competition. Tamari is one of our best English students, and she entered the English-language category. (Tea actually did most of the writing with my corrections and edits -- something that I would never do in the U.S. But in an educational system that doesn't yet grasp the meaning of students doing actual work -- 100%, original, un-plagarized -- that Tea and Tamari had the initiative and motivation to attempt writing something original is a step in the right direction at least. One change at a time....)
In February (I think), Tamari read her essay to a panel of judges in Zugdidi, and two weeks ago, our school was informed that she had earned a spot in the final competition in Tbilisi. For a village school to be selected to compete with the city schools is a great honor. The village schools are often sub-par in every respect, but Shamgona is by no means ordinary nor sub-par.
The last two weeks have been filled with after-school- and weekend-hours of pronunciation practice, intonation practice, and calming Tamari's nerves. Every day, Tamari came to our house to spend time with Tea and I as we worked with her to prepare for reading her essay to the judges at the National Youth Palace in Tbilisi.
At 9:30 p.m. Saturday night, Tea, Koba, and I picked up Tamari at her house and drove to the train station in Zugdidi. (Koba had some business to take care of in the city, so he decided to join us girls for the trip.) We reserved a compartment on the overnight train to the capital. The train was not nearly as nice as the overnight train I took in Egypt with Katherine and James, but it was clean enough and had four bunks so we could all sleep. Well, "could" is the operative word here -- Tamari and Tea were too nervous to sleep. Koba can sleep anytime, anywhere. I put in earplugs and took a sleeping pill. So, two of the four of us slept..... As I felt myself succumbing to the sleep aid, my last thought was, "There's no rail.... it's a long way to the floor...." Thankfully, I didn't fall out.
Tea woke me up when we were about fifteen minutes away from the Tbilisi station. It was just after 6 a.m. We didn't have to be at the Youth Palace until after 9, so we took the metro to Koba's cousin's apartment to hang out and have breakfast. We knocked on the door. A couple of minutes went by before a bleary-eyed, familiar face opened the door -- we were not expected, and everyone was still asleep. But true to Georgian-character, Mari and Maia (Koba's cousins-in-law) ushered us in with warm welcomes, kisses, and embraces. The ladies seated us in the kitchen and immediately set the table with as much food as they could find and turned on the tea-kettle. I am constantly taking lessons in hospitality.....
After breakfast, Tea, a very nervous Tamari, and I cleaned up, changed our clothes, and headed back to the metro. It felt a little funny to be the one in the group who knew the metro system and stops -- in six months, I think I have spent more time in Tbilisi than Tea or Tamari have -- at least in the downtown area.
We came up out of the subway at Freedom Square and followed the crowd of students, parents, and teachers to the front door of the National Youth Palace -- an organization that the government runs to offer academic-extras for students at no cost. We worked our way to the registration table, signed in, and then stood around wondering where to go and what to do next. Georgians are not very good at organization nor communication, large-scale or small-scale -- we were not given any time/place information. After standing around for a few minutes, I suggested that Tea ask at the registration table -- it was then that I spotted a sheet of paper tacked in the middle of a huge bulletin board -- it was in Georgian, but the organizational-layout of the text made me think that maybe it was a list of meeting rooms and times for each category of the competition. Bingo. Room 202.
We found the stairs and wandered around the entire second floor, but there was no room with the number "202." There weren't even any that started with a "2--." No matter -- we walked back through the hallways, threading our way through the mob, and eventually found room 122 that had a sign on the door, "ინგლისური ენა" -- English language. Tamari went to the front and took her seat among the other students who were there to participate. Tea and I sat in the back with the other teachers and parents.
There were around 35 students there. I wondered how long this day was going to be -- I knew that Tamari's essay was five pages long -- if everyone's work was that lengthy.... But when the judges started the competition, Tea and I looked at each other with pained expressions, thinking that we had not properly prepared Tamari. The judges did not want the students to read their work. They wanted only a brief summary of what the students had written. After two solid weeks of working on proper pronunciation, intonation, and fluency, Tamari was on her own -- she had to win the judges over with impromptu speaking.
A few of the students who shared their work did pretty well -- the rest were average. One of the judges shushed each student after only one minute -- she interrupted the student, mid-sentence with a harsh (typical, old-school), "Enough. Sit down." Then she and the other judges made a remark or two or asked a bland question about the student's work. The judges sounded completely disinterested in most of the students' writing. There was one girl who wrote some original poetry in English that was pretty nice. Most of the others sounded like they had translated a Wikipedia entry on the topic of their choice.
Tamari was supposed to be number 27 in the order, but when she was to be next, a girl who was after Tamari spoke up and said that she needed to leave, and could she please share her work next? The judges said yes, and when she was finished, the order picked up on the other side of Tamari. She looked back at Tea and me with a desperate, pleading look to just get it over with, but we returned reassuring smiles that she would be just fine. When the last student on the list had finished, the judges asked if anyone had not yet shared -- Tamari and two other students raised their hands. Tamari was next.
She stood up and introduced her topic, "Georiga's Lost Territories." That got the judges attention. She started summarizing what her essay was all about, and one of the judges asked her to please read some of it for them. Tamari started reading. The judges immediately connected with her -- they listened intently, passionately. When Tamari finished reading the first page of her essay, she paused and looked at the judges -- the one who shushed all the other students asked Tamari to continue reading. Tea and I grabbed onto each other in absolute glee. Success!! Tamari ended up reading almost all of her essay to the riveted panel. They applauded when she finished -- they had not clapped for even one other student. They wanted to know who her teacher was -- Tamari pointed out Tea and I, and the judges talked with us for a couple of minutes about the topic and congratulated us all on a job well done -- and for tackling an issue that is not only personal and original, but relevant to all of Georgian society. Tea and Tamari were both ecstatic!!
Tamari received a first-place certificate for her work, and Tea received a congratulatory certificate as well. The rest of the day, they were both on cloud nine! I was so proud of both of them.
Later on in the day, Tamari told Tea that she wants to enter the competition again next year, and this time, she wants to do the writing herself. I promised to help again with editing and proofreading. (Gotta love technology that will make that possible!) It makes me so happy to be a part of such radical changes with these motivated students and teachers. Days like this certainly do make it all feel worthwhile.
Back during Christmas break, Tea and I helped one of our students, a tenth-grader named Tamari write an essay for a nation-wide academic competition. Tamari is one of our best English students, and she entered the English-language category. (Tea actually did most of the writing with my corrections and edits -- something that I would never do in the U.S. But in an educational system that doesn't yet grasp the meaning of students doing actual work -- 100%, original, un-plagarized -- that Tea and Tamari had the initiative and motivation to attempt writing something original is a step in the right direction at least. One change at a time....)
In February (I think), Tamari read her essay to a panel of judges in Zugdidi, and two weeks ago, our school was informed that she had earned a spot in the final competition in Tbilisi. For a village school to be selected to compete with the city schools is a great honor. The village schools are often sub-par in every respect, but Shamgona is by no means ordinary nor sub-par.
The last two weeks have been filled with after-school- and weekend-hours of pronunciation practice, intonation practice, and calming Tamari's nerves. Every day, Tamari came to our house to spend time with Tea and I as we worked with her to prepare for reading her essay to the judges at the National Youth Palace in Tbilisi.
At 9:30 p.m. Saturday night, Tea, Koba, and I picked up Tamari at her house and drove to the train station in Zugdidi. (Koba had some business to take care of in the city, so he decided to join us girls for the trip.) We reserved a compartment on the overnight train to the capital. The train was not nearly as nice as the overnight train I took in Egypt with Katherine and James, but it was clean enough and had four bunks so we could all sleep. Well, "could" is the operative word here -- Tamari and Tea were too nervous to sleep. Koba can sleep anytime, anywhere. I put in earplugs and took a sleeping pill. So, two of the four of us slept..... As I felt myself succumbing to the sleep aid, my last thought was, "There's no rail.... it's a long way to the floor...." Thankfully, I didn't fall out.
Tea woke me up when we were about fifteen minutes away from the Tbilisi station. It was just after 6 a.m. We didn't have to be at the Youth Palace until after 9, so we took the metro to Koba's cousin's apartment to hang out and have breakfast. We knocked on the door. A couple of minutes went by before a bleary-eyed, familiar face opened the door -- we were not expected, and everyone was still asleep. But true to Georgian-character, Mari and Maia (Koba's cousins-in-law) ushered us in with warm welcomes, kisses, and embraces. The ladies seated us in the kitchen and immediately set the table with as much food as they could find and turned on the tea-kettle. I am constantly taking lessons in hospitality.....
After breakfast, Tea, a very nervous Tamari, and I cleaned up, changed our clothes, and headed back to the metro. It felt a little funny to be the one in the group who knew the metro system and stops -- in six months, I think I have spent more time in Tbilisi than Tea or Tamari have -- at least in the downtown area.
We came up out of the subway at Freedom Square and followed the crowd of students, parents, and teachers to the front door of the National Youth Palace -- an organization that the government runs to offer academic-extras for students at no cost. We worked our way to the registration table, signed in, and then stood around wondering where to go and what to do next. Georgians are not very good at organization nor communication, large-scale or small-scale -- we were not given any time/place information. After standing around for a few minutes, I suggested that Tea ask at the registration table -- it was then that I spotted a sheet of paper tacked in the middle of a huge bulletin board -- it was in Georgian, but the organizational-layout of the text made me think that maybe it was a list of meeting rooms and times for each category of the competition. Bingo. Room 202.
We found the stairs and wandered around the entire second floor, but there was no room with the number "202." There weren't even any that started with a "2--." No matter -- we walked back through the hallways, threading our way through the mob, and eventually found room 122 that had a sign on the door, "ინგლისური ენა" -- English language. Tamari went to the front and took her seat among the other students who were there to participate. Tea and I sat in the back with the other teachers and parents.
There were around 35 students there. I wondered how long this day was going to be -- I knew that Tamari's essay was five pages long -- if everyone's work was that lengthy.... But when the judges started the competition, Tea and I looked at each other with pained expressions, thinking that we had not properly prepared Tamari. The judges did not want the students to read their work. They wanted only a brief summary of what the students had written. After two solid weeks of working on proper pronunciation, intonation, and fluency, Tamari was on her own -- she had to win the judges over with impromptu speaking.
A few of the students who shared their work did pretty well -- the rest were average. One of the judges shushed each student after only one minute -- she interrupted the student, mid-sentence with a harsh (typical, old-school), "Enough. Sit down." Then she and the other judges made a remark or two or asked a bland question about the student's work. The judges sounded completely disinterested in most of the students' writing. There was one girl who wrote some original poetry in English that was pretty nice. Most of the others sounded like they had translated a Wikipedia entry on the topic of their choice.
Tamari was supposed to be number 27 in the order, but when she was to be next, a girl who was after Tamari spoke up and said that she needed to leave, and could she please share her work next? The judges said yes, and when she was finished, the order picked up on the other side of Tamari. She looked back at Tea and me with a desperate, pleading look to just get it over with, but we returned reassuring smiles that she would be just fine. When the last student on the list had finished, the judges asked if anyone had not yet shared -- Tamari and two other students raised their hands. Tamari was next.
She stood up and introduced her topic, "Georiga's Lost Territories." That got the judges attention. She started summarizing what her essay was all about, and one of the judges asked her to please read some of it for them. Tamari started reading. The judges immediately connected with her -- they listened intently, passionately. When Tamari finished reading the first page of her essay, she paused and looked at the judges -- the one who shushed all the other students asked Tamari to continue reading. Tea and I grabbed onto each other in absolute glee. Success!! Tamari ended up reading almost all of her essay to the riveted panel. They applauded when she finished -- they had not clapped for even one other student. They wanted to know who her teacher was -- Tamari pointed out Tea and I, and the judges talked with us for a couple of minutes about the topic and congratulated us all on a job well done -- and for tackling an issue that is not only personal and original, but relevant to all of Georgian society. Tea and Tamari were both ecstatic!!
Tamari received a first-place certificate for her work, and Tea received a congratulatory certificate as well. The rest of the day, they were both on cloud nine! I was so proud of both of them.
Later on in the day, Tamari told Tea that she wants to enter the competition again next year, and this time, she wants to do the writing herself. I promised to help again with editing and proofreading. (Gotta love technology that will make that possible!) It makes me so happy to be a part of such radical changes with these motivated students and teachers. Days like this certainly do make it all feel worthwhile.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
To be continued....
The last two nights I slept on the overnight train to and from Tbilisi -- thank God for earplugs and sleeping pills. Yesterday was spent at an academic "competition" and then hanging out with Koba's family. I was going to write about the days' events this morning in the two or so hours I thought I would have free before going to school to teach, but a 6:30 a.m. suphra has nixed that idea.....
.....so, until tonight when I can write.....
.....so, until tonight when I can write.....
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Running philosophy
It's been a couple of months since I did a long run. With being sick, being bitten by a dog, and then sick again my longs runs had been cut down to an hour or less. Today was my first 90-minute run since all my ailments finally cleared out.
It was tough.
When I know that a run is going to be difficult, I detach my brain from my legs -- an ability most long-distance runners possess. I put my movements on auto-pilot and let my mind wander apart from my physical reality.
Today while my legs were pounding the dirt/pavement/rocks, my mind drifted to one of my favorite topics to ponder -- the human condition. I'm not sure why I enjoy contemplating what it means to be human. Maybe I am trying to connect myself to the world at large. Maybe I am looking for where I fit into the sea of humanity. No, I don't think that's it. I think that I just like finding the similarities with all people everywhere.
My thread of thought started with my blog post from yesterday about picking up the giant toad and what my mom and aunt wrote on my facebook link in response. They both said that they wouldn't have had the nerve to pick up the toad. I almost chickened out, and I certainly didn't like the way the toad felt, but I did it anyway. I got to wondering then what it is that makes some people more daring than others. How did I have the nerve to grab that gross-looking amphibian? Heart racing, adrenaline pumping -- I did it despite the red-flag that Caution had raised in my consciousness.
Are daring people really wired differently? Or do we just know how to ignore the little voice of Caution who feverishly waves a question mark in the moments leading up to the daring feat? Maybe, but that split-second-decision, "To do, or not to do," requires an immediate answer -- no hesitation -- either "Yes," or "No." Perhaps the synapses of the Daring don't fire or fire faster or misfire, or do we just default to "Yes"? Everyone is capable of the action. Anyone could pick up that toad. Anyone can jump out of a plane. But not everyone will.
Regardless, I think that everyone is ultimately made of the same stuff. Humanity is humanity. The make-up of each person is essentially the same. We all have frailties. We all have strengths. We all have emotions. We all have the same basic needs. Every person is as capable as anyone else of doing anything. Heroics, acts of daring, acts of kindness or selflessness, horrific acts -- every person is capable of committing the same crime or saving the day. Being human makes it so.
So why, then are people's actions so different?
Maybe it's the culmination of the experience of living out our humanity in individual contexts and with individual perspectives. What I have been through in my life causes me to act in a certain way, making certain decisions based on my previous experiences. But you have not been where I have been. You have not seen what I have seen. You have not felt what I have felt. And vice versa. Which makes us very different creatures.
So we're the same. But we're different.
That's what I thought about on my run today.
It was tough.
When I know that a run is going to be difficult, I detach my brain from my legs -- an ability most long-distance runners possess. I put my movements on auto-pilot and let my mind wander apart from my physical reality.
Today while my legs were pounding the dirt/pavement/rocks, my mind drifted to one of my favorite topics to ponder -- the human condition. I'm not sure why I enjoy contemplating what it means to be human. Maybe I am trying to connect myself to the world at large. Maybe I am looking for where I fit into the sea of humanity. No, I don't think that's it. I think that I just like finding the similarities with all people everywhere.
My thread of thought started with my blog post from yesterday about picking up the giant toad and what my mom and aunt wrote on my facebook link in response. They both said that they wouldn't have had the nerve to pick up the toad. I almost chickened out, and I certainly didn't like the way the toad felt, but I did it anyway. I got to wondering then what it is that makes some people more daring than others. How did I have the nerve to grab that gross-looking amphibian? Heart racing, adrenaline pumping -- I did it despite the red-flag that Caution had raised in my consciousness.
Are daring people really wired differently? Or do we just know how to ignore the little voice of Caution who feverishly waves a question mark in the moments leading up to the daring feat? Maybe, but that split-second-decision, "To do, or not to do," requires an immediate answer -- no hesitation -- either "Yes," or "No." Perhaps the synapses of the Daring don't fire or fire faster or misfire, or do we just default to "Yes"? Everyone is capable of the action. Anyone could pick up that toad. Anyone can jump out of a plane. But not everyone will.
Regardless, I think that everyone is ultimately made of the same stuff. Humanity is humanity. The make-up of each person is essentially the same. We all have frailties. We all have strengths. We all have emotions. We all have the same basic needs. Every person is as capable as anyone else of doing anything. Heroics, acts of daring, acts of kindness or selflessness, horrific acts -- every person is capable of committing the same crime or saving the day. Being human makes it so.
So why, then are people's actions so different?
Maybe it's the culmination of the experience of living out our humanity in individual contexts and with individual perspectives. What I have been through in my life causes me to act in a certain way, making certain decisions based on my previous experiences. But you have not been where I have been. You have not seen what I have seen. You have not felt what I have felt. And vice versa. Which makes us very different creatures.
So we're the same. But we're different.
That's what I thought about on my run today.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Close to nature
I know that I've said this before, but I love touching things. When I like the way something looks, I have to find out how it feels.
After school today, Tea asked me if I wanted to go with her to the neighbor's house to get some tomato seedlings to plant in the garden. Of course I said "yes." I love getting my hands dirty.
As we walked down the road empty-handed, I wondered how we were going to carry tomato plants back to the house -- knowing that Georgians' plant huge gardens with plenty of every kind of plant, I knew that we would be bringing back more than a half-dozen seedlings. I didn't ask; I decided to wait and see what method of transport emerged.
The neighbor led us back to her garden already full of small corn, eggplant, cucumber, pepper, and tomato plants. I'm not sure what I expected for the tomato seedlings -- maybe seedlings started the way we start them in the U.S. -- single plants in small containers (peat-pots for the environmentally-friendly). Well, that was not what I found. As I watched the neighbor pulling plants up by the roots, it didn't register at first that these were the tomato plants. I thought that she had grabbed a handful of weeds and yanked them out. Oh no -- they were indeed the tomato plants. A small patch of ground had been coated with tomato seeds, and the seedlings sprouted and were growing all together. Transporting was going to happen by the handful, and transplanting was going to happen by the bare roots.
Tea and I each had two handfuls of excavated shoots when we headed back out the gate toward the house.
It had rained off and on for the last twenty-four hours (or maybe more), so the ground was soft and moist -- perfect for planting. Tea quickly dug about seventy holes at regular intervals all across one of the garden plots. I chose the best seedlings with thick stems and healthy leaves, and laid a plant in each hole. Then we went back and filled the holes with dirt by hand, breaking up the cool clumps of earth over the roots and stem, leaving the bright green herbage fanned out above the ebony-colored soil.
At one point I stood up to stretch my legs and back. My hands were black with the rich earth. I breathed deeply, inhaling the dewey, muggy scent of life. I love that smell. (To steal my friend Katherine's facebook status from today; a quote from Margaret Atwood, "In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt." I heartily agree.)
Last night's experience was quite different.
I was just getting ready to head to my room for the night when Koba called to me from the front yard, "Stepani! Erti tsutit!" (Stephanie, come here for a minute!) Tea and I looked at each other with puzzled expressions and headed out the door. Koba was standing in front of the garage door with an expectant grin on his face, pointing at the ground about ten feet in front of him. There, squatted on the concrete apron in front of the garage was a biggest toad I have ever seen outside of a zoo. It was bigger than my hand. From nose to "tail," it was at least eight inches long. Its fat belly gushed out on the sides over its sinewy legs and feet, and the bumpy, dry skin hung off its body as if it were a sweater that got stretched out in the wash.
Of course I was fascinated! I got within a few feet of it to see if it would jump away, but it remained perfectly still. I looked at Tea and asked if it was dangerous in any way -- poisonous -- or if I could pick it up. She said that it was safe, and then covered her face with her hands, cringing as I slowly inched forward. Elene, "Our Grandmother," and Tea's sister Teona had all come of the house to see what was going on. Everyone held their breath as I stealthily advanced on the unsuspecting amphibian. I sneaked up on it from the back, hands hovering just two inches above the warty bulk when I wondered for a split second if I should really do this.
Yes.
I grabbed the toad underneath its armpits and held onto its belly. Simultaneously, every female watching squealed.... including me! Koba shook his head and laughed. I carried it over to where everyone was huddled together.
The paunchy bulge felt cold and damp in my hands, its skin was indeed too big for it -- it slipped and glided around the solid form as the toad's legs gave a couple of half-hearted kicks in protest at being held. It was huge and heavy. I shuddered a couple of times in revulsion at the nastiness of how the toad felt -- it wasn't smooth and sleek like a frog. When I couldn't stand holding onto it any longer, I set it back down on the ground. With slow, weighted hops, it disappeared around the side of the house into the shadows.
I disappeared into the house to wash my hands.
After school today, Tea asked me if I wanted to go with her to the neighbor's house to get some tomato seedlings to plant in the garden. Of course I said "yes." I love getting my hands dirty.
As we walked down the road empty-handed, I wondered how we were going to carry tomato plants back to the house -- knowing that Georgians' plant huge gardens with plenty of every kind of plant, I knew that we would be bringing back more than a half-dozen seedlings. I didn't ask; I decided to wait and see what method of transport emerged.
The neighbor led us back to her garden already full of small corn, eggplant, cucumber, pepper, and tomato plants. I'm not sure what I expected for the tomato seedlings -- maybe seedlings started the way we start them in the U.S. -- single plants in small containers (peat-pots for the environmentally-friendly). Well, that was not what I found. As I watched the neighbor pulling plants up by the roots, it didn't register at first that these were the tomato plants. I thought that she had grabbed a handful of weeds and yanked them out. Oh no -- they were indeed the tomato plants. A small patch of ground had been coated with tomato seeds, and the seedlings sprouted and were growing all together. Transporting was going to happen by the handful, and transplanting was going to happen by the bare roots.
Tea and I each had two handfuls of excavated shoots when we headed back out the gate toward the house.
It had rained off and on for the last twenty-four hours (or maybe more), so the ground was soft and moist -- perfect for planting. Tea quickly dug about seventy holes at regular intervals all across one of the garden plots. I chose the best seedlings with thick stems and healthy leaves, and laid a plant in each hole. Then we went back and filled the holes with dirt by hand, breaking up the cool clumps of earth over the roots and stem, leaving the bright green herbage fanned out above the ebony-colored soil.
At one point I stood up to stretch my legs and back. My hands were black with the rich earth. I breathed deeply, inhaling the dewey, muggy scent of life. I love that smell. (To steal my friend Katherine's facebook status from today; a quote from Margaret Atwood, "In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt." I heartily agree.)
Last night's experience was quite different.
I was just getting ready to head to my room for the night when Koba called to me from the front yard, "Stepani! Erti tsutit!" (Stephanie, come here for a minute!) Tea and I looked at each other with puzzled expressions and headed out the door. Koba was standing in front of the garage door with an expectant grin on his face, pointing at the ground about ten feet in front of him. There, squatted on the concrete apron in front of the garage was a biggest toad I have ever seen outside of a zoo. It was bigger than my hand. From nose to "tail," it was at least eight inches long. Its fat belly gushed out on the sides over its sinewy legs and feet, and the bumpy, dry skin hung off its body as if it were a sweater that got stretched out in the wash.
Of course I was fascinated! I got within a few feet of it to see if it would jump away, but it remained perfectly still. I looked at Tea and asked if it was dangerous in any way -- poisonous -- or if I could pick it up. She said that it was safe, and then covered her face with her hands, cringing as I slowly inched forward. Elene, "Our Grandmother," and Tea's sister Teona had all come of the house to see what was going on. Everyone held their breath as I stealthily advanced on the unsuspecting amphibian. I sneaked up on it from the back, hands hovering just two inches above the warty bulk when I wondered for a split second if I should really do this.
Yes.
I grabbed the toad underneath its armpits and held onto its belly. Simultaneously, every female watching squealed.... including me! Koba shook his head and laughed. I carried it over to where everyone was huddled together.
The paunchy bulge felt cold and damp in my hands, its skin was indeed too big for it -- it slipped and glided around the solid form as the toad's legs gave a couple of half-hearted kicks in protest at being held. It was huge and heavy. I shuddered a couple of times in revulsion at the nastiness of how the toad felt -- it wasn't smooth and sleek like a frog. When I couldn't stand holding onto it any longer, I set it back down on the ground. With slow, weighted hops, it disappeared around the side of the house into the shadows.
I disappeared into the house to wash my hands.
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