Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
By now, I’ve played several sports with Georgians while getting a capable grasp of their strengths and weaknesses in athletics. Not surprisingly, just like any other country in the world but
I’ve yet to play rugby outside of leisurely tossing the ball around with Luka and Rezi, but I would think most Georgian men would excel in this activity based on the full-contact football they play. But I doubt the average Georgian can catch a properly thrown rugby ball based on the hand-eye coordination they display in other sports (many of my passes on the basketball court have caused a black eye or two).
But much to my surprise, Georgians are damn good at phrenburti (volleyball). Of course when I say Georgians, I’m really only talking about the men of Bandza. But if there’s enough skill in a small village of Samegrelo to get a consistently competetive game, then I think it’s safe to assume that the remaining 99.9% of the country’s population share a similar ability; that is unless—unbeknownst to me—I was assigned to the phrenburti pipeline of Georgia. Although Bandza does churn out some tall boys—or as my buddy Ian calls them, freaks.
I’ve never been much of a volleyball player, but like most sports (except for tennis; I suck at tennis), I can hold my own. Yet here, I often find myself acting as the weak link in my side. My neighbors here (when you live in a village, everyone is your mezobeli [neighbor]) are quite good at the sport, and play it with an ability (based on my previously mentioned lack of hand-eye-coordination, it’s quite surprising that that skill is conjured up for this activity) and strategy that they so sorely lack in basketball.
I mean, it’s not the Olympics, but they exercise strict positioning and generally try to use all three volleys to set up an optimal scoring chance. When a side receives a serviceable ball, they’ll aim a volley to the setter (who is always front-center with his back to the net) while yelling sami!  as a way to count down the volleys. The setter will then serve a nice ball up to a player ready to spike while calling out their name, Maxi!
Back in the States, when I play volleyball, there’s not nearly this much thought and strategy put into it (example: Georgians will lose their shit if a back-player does not shift forward to cover the player in front of him who’s going up to block a spike; ra ginda bitcho!). For us amateur Americans, usually the aim is to get the ball across the net without an unforced error. The thought process is more along the lines of ‘Let’s not fuck this up’ rather than the Georgian philosophy of ‘Embarrass your opponent by spiking a ball into their face,’ a tactic that I’ve been on the business end of more than a few times.
One person in particular who has tattooed my forehead with freakish consistency is my dance instructor Vephkhvia (probably as payback for my snail like progress in learning the dance he’s been drilling into me for the past month). Despite being decked out in formal dance shoes (shined to a ‘T’) and nice dress pants, the man dominates. It’s really Jekyll and Hyde, as he’s so gentle and elegant when on the dance floor, but when he walks onto the volleyball court, he turns into blood-thirsty maniac.
What is even more interesting than the level at which the men of my village play is how they play it. Smoking breaks are often, but that doesn’t mean you won’t see one of the older guys digging a spike out of the dirt with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Also, a point doesn’t go by without someone yelling at a teammate who messed up (unless it was me, who I think they just feel sorry for). Usually the shouting match doesn’t go past one exchange each, but the dialogue always consists of a forcefully dictated bitcho (boy) and something else that I believe translates into ‘What the fuck?’
And trust me on this one, you do not want to see the arguments that disputable calls can lead to. The questionable ruling usually arises from the ball hitting near the boundary (which is marked by a line made from a pick). I’m surprised I haven’t seen blows exchanged at least once, although today one guy feigned quitting after being forced to succeed his argument. Georgian men: passionate about politics and volleyball calls.
Another aspect, which drives me crazy, is their insistence on trying to use some crazy Ronaldinho move with their feet when trying to get the ball back to the server. More often that not the ball ends up wayward, delaying the game another thirty seconds. I swear that most people could play two games in the time span it takes us to play one game. For a finicky American, it’s beyond frustrating.
But what redeems it has to be how they express their displeasure after making an error (this is before being senselessly berated by a teammate). I’m constantly making mistakes, after which I’ll let out a long but slow bodishi (sorry) to which my teammates gracefully reply araphris (which, when used in this context, translates into something along the lines of ‘no worries’). But when Georgians muck up, they’ll immediately utter a remorseful and drawn-out deda (mother). The part that gets me is the manner in which they say it; like it’s been lodged up in their throat for years and they’re just now able to get it out. De….da.
Endnote: The men of Bandza are also sick at table tennis (ping-pong). So random.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Georgians love sunflower seeds. There is not a place in this country—except for the churches—in which Georgians won’t find a way to chew on a couple seeds. You can buy them at any busy street corner in the country, usually from some hunchbacked Bebia (grandma) selling cigarettes, seeds, and possibly condoms. It kind of gives you the feeling that you’re constantly at all a ballgame; you know… if they sold cigarettes and condoms at sporting events.
Another aspect of Georgian culture that makes you feel as if you could be at Fenway or Wrigley: the women selling warm khatchapuri and lobiani from a tray they carry through the bazaars, all the while calling out the names of their product. It gets me every time, sending a slight nostalgic reminder of the ‘Lemonade Here’ guy at PNC Park. But let me tell you something, nothing hits the spot like a warm khabizgina (bread baked with potatoes and cheese) while trying to squeeze your way past haggling Georgians.
I digress; back to sunflower seeds. When outside, people just drop their shells on the ground leaving a nice Hansel and Gretel trail wherever they may be going. But if they are indoors, usually they will collect them in their hands for when they next hit the outdoors. Although that doesn’t mean the marshrutka floors aren’t cluttered with the seeds of former passengers.
The worst are the students at my school, who will sit in class, eat them at a non-stop pace, and drop the remains on the already dirty floor. I’ve tried my best to put a stop to it (especially in Tamari’s own classroom), but it’s kind of hard when the school actually sells them in our own tuck shop (a small room that sells pens, notebooks, lollipops, bread, and of course, packets of seeds).
But the students don’t really care at all about the school because there is no accountability. Every evening, a woman goes through the entire school and sweeps the place clean (side note: can’t they make brooms with longer handles for the women here? There’s a reason any woman over seventy is hunched over walking with a cane, and it’s because their brooms are the size of most people’s dust brooms).
So what’s the problem with dirtying the school if someone else is going to come through it every night to clean? What a wonderful message they’re sending to the youths of Georgia: Drop your garbage wherever. Someone else will clean it up for you. Maybe that’s the reason why the roadsides are cluttered with trash and there isn’t one public garbage can or dumpster within a ten kilometer radius of my village. But really, who doesn’t like the smell of burning garbage that constantly wafts through the air of Samegrelo?
I’d like to talk to my director about organizing a once a week crew made up of students that would help with cleaning. Although I feel like I might get a response along the lines of Why? That’s what we have the cleaning lady for. Another motto for Georgia: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And if it is broke, just put some tape on it.
Editor’s note: In true Georgian fashion, I don’t know what’s wrong with the Blog and why it looks this way, but until I get some overwhelming complaints or the problem doesn’t right itself, then I’m not going to do anything. This place is getting to me.
Friday, December 3, 2010
On Saturday, the US Rugby team played the Georgian team in Tbilisi for a friendly match. Unlike their football team, Georgians love their rugby team because it’s somewhat internationally significant. Their team recently won the European championship and ranks fifteenth in the world, one spot behind the America team, which was much to my surprise since I always thought we were terrible; but really, how many countries even have Rugby teams? But it’s not surprising since rugby blends two things that Georgians love: men and contact.
I would have gone to the match at the national stadium in Tbilisi if I didn’t have a birthday to attend on Saturday night. Based on how many people were in attendance, it wouldn’t have been difficult to get a ticket; the crowd wore a blue and yellow shirt. Apparently the Georgian’s support hasn’t translated into actual bodies in the seats.
Anyways, since I couldn’t be there, I had three of my fellow Americans over to the house to watch it with my family. We bought beer (unfortunately, it was Natakhtari, which just happens to sponsor the Georgian Rugby Team; they don’t really have much selection at the markets in Bandza) and potato chips, as that’s what you need when watching an American sport’s team, while Ira stuffed us with satchmeli (food) and Khutcha (my cousin) constantly filled our glasses with the family wine. It was the best of both worlds.
I’ll be honest, I don’t know much about rugby, but it’s not that hard to understand at a basic level if you already know American football (don’t ask me about strategy though). I just wanted to see someone carted off on a stretcher, which nearly happened early on when an American player illegally clotheslined a Georgian player. Pretty sure Lasha spouted some not so flattering names towards the American culprit. If it were you or me, we would have been decapitated, but since the guy was a rugby player he got up after the initial shock had him down and out for a few moments.
Despite not really knowing what was going on, it was still a ton of fun to watch, with the Americans leading for almost the entire match. But Georgia was driving while down 17-12 in extra-time and had the ball near the end zone; the room was at a standstill in anticipation. I could taste the victory when suddenly the power cut out. Immediately, Lasha looked at me and exclaimed “Saakashvili!” It was a classic response.
Eventually Rezi got on the phone with his friend and found out that Georgia had scored, kicked the extra point, and won 19-17 (not quite what Luka predicted: a 24-12 Georgian victory). We didn’t believe him until the power came back on and the game was the top story on the news. As Ian exclaimed, the whole thing seemed staged, let’s cut the power, kill all the Americans, and act as if we won! But much to our chagrin, it was all too real.
I was kind of happy Georgia won anyways, as I really don’t have all that much invested into the American Rugby Team, and I had a feeling a Sakartvelo victory would mean much more to them than an American victory would for us. But my diplomatic stance didn’t stop Luka and Rezi from giving me constant business. Pretty soon we’re going to have a lesson on winning with humility.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
This horribly busy month of Movember is almost over (oh yeah, remember to MOnate while you still can!), so I should get back to more regular posting when the relaxing month of December roles around. Although I head off to
Teachers – Mostly I’m thankful for teachers everywhere, as now that I’m finally a card-carrying member (at least to some degree), I understand how much of a thankless and rough occupation it is. Particularly, I’m thankful for my fellow teachers at the
Hospitality – The word that defines
Autumn – I don’t know if this has to do with global warming (also known as man-bear-pig), but the weather in the past two months has been incredible. I’ve always loved Fall, which specifically comes from growing up in
BaNdza – Say what you want about Bandza (and not many people say much because it’s pretty non-descript besides the name), but it’s my home and I love it. The village has accepted me into their community without hesitation and as long as I’m here, I never have anything to worry about. I can’t walk to town without being bombarded with gomarjoba’s and rogora khart’s.
SaaKashvili – Despite humoring Lasha by responding with boghzi when he yells out Misha’s name, I’ll repeat in saying that I don’t know all that much about the man or his politics. All I do know is that I wouldn’t be here without him. There’s a reason all TLGers are referred to as ‘Misha’s Teachers’ throughout
Students – Some more than others of course. But in all seriousness, they’re all good kids. I’m especially thankful that they are patient with me being impatient with them. I’m also thankful that at such a young age, they already understand that things will get better with time.
Ira – Special thanks to my host-mother Ira, who, as previously mentioned, does everything for me. Without her I’d be lost, sustaining on a diet of chips and coca-cola, constantly wearing dirty clothes, and probably sprawled out dead at the bottom of an empty pool somewhere. She is incredible.
Volunteers – Yeah, I know I said I wouldn’t use this as a term for my fellow TLG teachers, but it fits too well in this spot not to be used. I never thought I would make this many good friends so quickly. There’s a reason I never get homesick, and that’s because I’ve got friends in
XI Class – By far my most enjoyable class (it’s actually a shame I only get them twice a week). Even if I am convinced that two of my students show up high to class (the only two kids in school with long hair), they still enthusiastically participate. I’m especially thankful that all of the girls do their homework, which also gives me a chance to heap guilt and embarrassment on all the boys. Mostly I’m thankful to know that whenever I teach this class, I’ll never have to raise my voice.
Nino’s – I’m thankful for our program group-coordinator Nino who did everything in her power to prepare us and put us in a position to succeed; she still remains a good friend (despite her incorrectly comparing Bandza to some heaven on earth Utopia and leading me to some initial disappointment). Also for my music instructor Nino and her putting up with me and my once a week attempt to learn a musical instrument (plus taking time out of her own schedule to fix my family’s piano at the house—a painfully tedious undertaking); she doesn’t even get mad when I laugh after she says now you must do it with no mistakes. And finally for all the Nino’s at my school, who unlike all the boys named Torniqe, are the picture of perfection and good behavior.
Gabunia’s – I can’t beat this drum consistently or hard enough, but I am so thankful for my host family and everything they do for me. They’ve given me so much while I feel as if I’ve given so little. There’s no request they’ll turn down and no extra mile they won’t go to make me feel as comfortable as possible. One hell of a family. I really can’t do it justice in words.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
So I've donated my iPhone, digital camera, and USB memory stick to the citizens of Georgia since I got here in mid-August; although the last two donations have come in the past ten days (Speaking of donations, remember to MOnate). I'd like to say that I'm abandoning all material possessions in order to live a fuller life (yes, I did just finish Walden, what of it?). But it makes it kind of hard to operate a blog without any photos and the ability to transfer those photos and the actual content onto the family computer from my own laptop. I need to get a USB chip because it's important for teaching and many other aspects, but I may be retreading some pictures for a while, because I don't get paid enough to be replacing cameras left and right.
But right now I don't have any way to transfer files from my own computer to the family computer (which is where the internet runs from). So this post will be short, filled with mistakes (more so than usual), and probably be more useless than my other thoughts. Nonetheless, given that it is Thanksgiving back home (Be ready for a Things I'm Thankful For post in the near future), I have a quick thought on Georgian holidays and how they are honored here.
I'm really at a loss as to which holidays Georgians celebrate. Tuesday was Giorgoba (St. George's Day) and considering this country is named after him, I thought it would be a celebration of massive proportions. So I went to Kutaisi thinking I might as well be in a somewhat large city for this momentous day, and there was pretty much nothing going on. I went to two churches (one was crowded, the other not so much), walked around the city, and went to McDonalds. It really could have been any other day.
My host family did nothing for the holiday, and most of my students didn't do anything as well. Tamari told me it's a bigger deal in East Georgia, which I guess is legitimate, but it seems like all the holidays are bigger deals in East Georgia (mainly Tbilisi) including Mariamoba (St. Maria's Day) and Svetitskhovloba (I'm not even really sure what this day was about, but we had school off and nobody did anything).
I've been told that the real holidays are New Years, Christmas (which is on the 7th of January), and old New Years (the 14th of January) and that all three of those holidays turn January into one big month of suphras, gorging oneself, and drinking tons of wine. It also helps that there is no work to be done at that time and no school in session. This is all very convenient since I will not be here for any of those days (winter break). FML.
But I can't really complain about just a few days, as Georgians are constantly celebrating something that is not a national holiday (there is always a wedding, birthday, funeral, or anniversary of a death going on in your neighborhood). So maybe these random holidays are more or less just a chance for most Georgians to relax from celebrating the rest of the year.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
I came home from school this afternoon to Lasha cleaning out his Mercedes Benz and thoroughly scrubbing the windows all the while mumbling Georgian, Russian, and English obscenities about Saakashvili. If there’s anything wrong in Lasha’s life, he blames Saakashvili. But now that there are two new ‘outrageous’ auto-laws coming into effect soon, Lasha’s anti-Misha rhetoric has increased to a relative volatile state.
I don’t even know if they were Misha’s prerogative, but all Georgian cars must have working seat belts that have to be used at all times and can also no longer have windows tinted past a certain degree. I personally applaud these ideas because I think seat belts are a necessity that everyone should use while tinted windows are terribly tacky and can’t be used for anything productive. Unfortunately, a majority of Georgian men—inlcuding Lasha—don’t agree with me or these new laws.
This is the gas station in Bandza, where they fill your tank with a funnel and measure how much gas you got with a scale. Not an exact science.
Nobody wears seat belts in this country, and the rare cars that have belt straps usually don’t even have anything on the other side of the seat to click them into. Also, I would say a majority of Georgian men have or want a BMW or Mercedes with tinted windows (disturbing side fact I’ve heard: German cars are responsible for over 90% of accidents in
This is the preferred mode of transport for most older Georgians, including this guy who had just takin' down six shots of tchatcha
I hope that wasn’t Lasha’s motivation behind having them in the first place, and I really don’t think it was. Odds are the reason was what drives a majority of Georgian men’s auto choices; it looks cool. The funniest part behind the whole thing is the reason
This is how the children of Georgia learn to drive before they are thrust into their parents' laps and told 'steer'
But Lasha doesn’t care about that. He’s only worried about people seeing him pick his nose from the streets of Bandza. I love Lasha, but he’s extremely shortsighted at times. Still, Lasha is vitally important to this post since when I get to talking about Georgian men and their cars, Lasha is my main inspiration to draw upon. And since Lasha represents the quintessential Georgian man, I have no problem with generalizing all Georgian men by what I see regarding Lasha and his car.
First of all, it wouldn’t surprise me that when Lasha does pass away—which hopefully won’t be for a long, long time—near his burial plot there will be a mural of him and his Mercedes Benz. Now that might sound ridiculous, but if you pass any graveyard in
Saw this in Zugdidi; some guy strapping a giant wine barrell on the top of his Lada. Seems safe enough, right?
I mean, I’m sure there’s some redneck in
You can't see it, but there's a car behind that painting. Classic.
One of the most disturbing aspects of this obsession is the length Georgian men go to for upkeep. I would say behind casinos and betting shops, the third most popular business might be car washes. They’re everywhere, and for good reason, as they’re always busy. But Lasha doesn’t take his Benz to a fancy car washin’ place, he just does it himself, which I have a feeling is an act that takes on some sort of religious importance for him, like a Muslim’s pilgrimage to
I’ve also never been in a Georgian’s car that is dirty or has trash littering the back seats. You could eat a meal off their upholstery it’s so clean. This, if you even know just my family, is almost never the case in
This is a Lada, in excellent condition I may say.
Before we move away from the outside of the car and onto the inside, one thing that Georgians never care to fix or make look right are their windshields, which are almost always cracked. This might seem odd, but based on the gravel and busted up roads that litter this country, it would only be a matter of time before there was a newer crack. This is the only instance in which I find Georgian men’s judgment to be sound regarding their cars.
This was a Ford truck that we got a ride in one day while hiking. One of the only Fords we've seen, and amazingly, it was owned by the Monastery in Balda (those are priests driving in the front).
There are a ton of mechanic shops in
This is the driving school we came across in Tbilisi, looks pretty legit, doesn't it?
There are the random accelerations, the jerking of the wheel when passing another car or cow on the road (note: there is no such thing as a safe distance from any sort of traffic; it’s almost as if they try and drive as close as possible just to show off their Schumacher skills), the absolute insistency on never putting the car in neutral, and then the oddest move of all when they randomly turn off their car and let it cruise down an incline.
There are certain other weird characteristics that may have to do with some unwritten driving code to which I’m not privy, like the number of honks when passing someone or trying to cut in (I’ve always thought that honking should be used strictly for emergencies and to grab someone’s attention when trying to give someone the bird) , and then the constant flickering of lights at night from high beams to low-beams to no lights at all (many Georgians will cruise at night without lights in order to save battery power; an extremely dangerous practice and also why I don’t run or ride my bike at night). There’s no other way to put it; Georgian men are terrible drivers.
This is the only nice road in Georgia, which runs along the river in Tbilisi for maybe five kilometers before turning back into a road out of Mad Max
It’s no wonder that my most pleasant driving experiences have come with Ian’s host-Mom Lali. Not many women drive in
There’s plenty more I could go on with, including how Georgian men always keep an extra liter of gas contained in an old plastic beer bottle somewhere in their car. Or I could try and guess why Georgians park where the park, which is pretty much wherever they want (I tried to explain parallel parking to one of my classes and they were completely lost). Or what about when they drive with their kids in their laps Brittany Spears style (I’m not making that up).
Go ahead and sleep wherever...
But I’d like to end with my most understanding Georgian driving theory. I won’t hide that I think Georgians are terrible drivers (and I’m pretty sure if I looked up some statistics, I’d have some backing on that front, but this is a blog, not some fancy quarterly). It amazes me how they drive with such utter disregard for their fellow drivers. In
This is a shot of the road right outside of my house, littered with cows
Monday, November 15, 2010
I’ve been wanting to get up a glossary of terms for quite some time, but am now only getting around to it. I realize some readers may not be religiously following this blog, and that I often use a term or a phrase that may feel like second nature to me, but is not easily definable to the casual reader. So here it is, the GNJB Georgian Glossary.
Lasha – Host-father – I don’t really know how to define Lasha, since he’s certainly not old enough to be my father as he’s probably only about thirty-five. He feels more like a watchful older brother, but Rezo (my host-grandfather) looks too old to be considered a father. It’s quite the conundrum.
But Lasha is hilarious in every way. He’s short, stout, has extremely short arms, and a square jaw that makes him look like a rock’em-sock’em-robot. He works on the family farm doing anything and everything (including acting as midwife to the pregnant cows), but also makes a living (or lack thereof) through sports betting, or as I like to call it, Georgian day-trading. He knows very little English, but loves to use the few phrases he does know as much as possible, including telling me good evening when I see him first thing in the morning.
Lasha also loves to keep up with current events, particularly politics, and he has no problem telling me how much of a liar, deceiver, or fibster Saakashvili is despite the fact that I continually tell him that Misha is my defacto boss. But despite these objections, I love to humor him by responding with boghzi when he yells out Saakashvili’s name to me, which in Lasha’s Georgian-English dictionary translates to fornicator or adulterer, but more accurately means bitch.
Ira (Irina) – Host-mother – Ira is Lasha’s Russian bride, and my host-mother. Ira is from
Ira speaks both Russian and Georgian; strictly Georgian with me, but a mixture of Russian and Georgian with the boys. Probably my favorite part about Ira is when Lasha says something funny or goofy (usually about Saakashvili being a fornicator of some sorts), she just chuckles sweetly and says, “Oh, Lasha.” It’s so damn cute and endearing.
Rezi (Reziko) – Host-brother – Rezi is the oldest boy (fifteen) and is named after his grandfather (Lasha’s father) Rezo. Rezi is much more like his Mother in that he’s an extremely hard worker, but does it without complaint. He’s the quieter of the two boys, and I love him for that. As I’ve had times where I’ve wanted to throttle Luke (who I’ll get to), I’ve never had anything but admiration for Rezi. He’s an especially good kid, despite his sneaking up on me while I’m at the computer and scaring the bejesus out of me.
Luka – Host-brother – Luka is the younger brother (twelve), extremely smart (too smart for his own good), and drives me crazy. He works hard, but never stops complaining about it. He’s also developed a terrible whiney tone when he wants to let people know about his displeasure (and he is often displeased). But Luka is also terribly funny, because he’s full of energy and loves to put on a show. He’s a bit odd; as one moment he can be singing and dancing to a Lady Gaga song, and then the next moment he’ll turn into a fifty year-old man by slapping his knee in an uproar over something funny on the TV.
Rezo – Host-Grandfather – I’ve already gone into much detail about this man they call Babua, but I still can’t really put my finger on what he thinks of me. Sometimes I see him and he’s all smiles jabbering at me in Megruli (the official dialect to our region, of which I only understand a few phrases), and then the next time I see him he looks at me in wonderment like he’s never seen me before. But he’s still highly entertaining to observe nonetheless.
Leila – Host-Grandmother – Leila is extremely warm and loving, much like Grandmothers the world over. She’s also led a pretty interesting life as she worked at the pharmacy in Martvili for over thirty years, has traveled to
Tamari (Tamrika) – Bandza School’s English Teacher – As some TLGers have been calling them, Tamari is my counterpart. She speaks and understands English very well for someone who has never had much contact with native English speakers. She is absurdly easy to get along with and definitely more open to progressive ideas than others. I feel like for some other TLGers, their Georgian-English teachers have really been the make or break for them, so I’m extremely thankful to be working with someone like Tamari.
Bandza – The name of my village, which is located in the Martvili district of the Samegrelo region. Bandza is fairly large for a village, as there are several markets in the center of town, a hotel, and a Sunday bazaar. Many other TLGers who are in villages don’t have nearly as many amenities as I’m afforded in Bandza. But that doesn’t mean I still don’t get the business from anyone and everyone about living in Bandza. Most people know Bandza because it’s at the crossroads between four somewhat substantial towns in Samegrelo (Khoni, Martvili, Senaki, and Abasha). But the adjective bandzi is the Georgian equivalent of lame. So it would compare to me living in an American town named Lame-o. Never ceases to entertain any Georgian when I tell them I live in Bandza.
Martvili – Martvili is the town ten kilometers up the road from me. It’s a legitimate town, with a supermarket, a café, my bank’s local branch, a park with a fountain, and a beautiful Monastery that sits atop the hill in the middle of town. Friend of the blog and fellow TLGer Ian teaches at one of the three schools there, while No-Problem David is from a village a few kilometers outside of town. Martvili is usually where I go when I want to unwind or do some shopping. As I tell Ian, it’s the
Samegrelo – The region in which most of the TLGers from my group are stationed. Half in the mountains, half in the only low-lands of Georgia, Samegrelo affords some pretty impressive views of the mountains to the north and south thanks to plains that run through the southern half of the region. Samegrelo also has it’s own language Megruli, which I mentioned above. People from Samegrelo love it when a foreigner can spout out even the smallest amount of Megruli, so even the few phrases I know come in handy when meeting a Megrelian. Mutcherek (how are you)?
TLG – Teach and Learn Georgia – My program that is run from the Ministry of Education in
Now I know many of you may not have learnt anything within that post, but it had to be done. I promise another post sometime this week regarding Georgian men and their cars (I know, I’ve been promising that for quite sometime, but this time it’s for real). But I’m still really busy, especially since Ian and I are planning and playing in a Bandza/Martvili basketball game on Thursday. This time, it’s for blood.
Unfortunately, no pictures for the time being since my internet is acting woefully slow. Soon, though.
Friday, November 12, 2010
There’s a bar on Carson Street in the Southside of Pittsburgh that I think has one of the better names for a bar anywhere. No, it’s not GNJB’s long lost cousin The Jaggerbush (but if you knew anything, you’d know that The Jaggerbush is off of Carson). The bar I’m talking about is Excuses.
I love everything about that name because it’s so pathetic. If you’re a regular at Excuses, odds are you fit the description of a deadbeat. You’re wife probably left you, and now you owe her alimony. Your boss is on your ass all the time, but nobody notices because you’re such a dick anyway. Hell, you probably steal from the collection plate at church. There’s a reason you’re at Excuses; you got nothing else.
There’s a strikingly truthful American saying that goes like this: excuses are like assholes, everyone’s got ‘em and they all stink. Unfortunately, I’m no different. As much as I want to say mine are legitimate, I know it doesn’t matter to anyone except myself. But honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been this busy.
I’ve got Movember and a plethora of emails to send out badgering people to donate. I’m also trying to help organize my annual Thanksgiving football game from another continent. Then there’s the football game my buddy Ian and I are trying to get together for next weekend in Martvili. I’m taking Georgian dance lessons three times a week, and because I’m so deathly afraid of my instructor Vephkhvia (derived from the Georgian word for ‘tiger’; yeah, he’s intense), I have to practice just as much outside of school. I also started piano lessons with Nino, the music teacher at my school (one thing I’ve realized so far, my musical IQ is comically low). Not to mention how I’m trying to drastically alter the curriculum by splitting up my year VI-IX classes (a vast undertaking that will require much more planning and teaching on my end). In the words of the six-fingered man from The Princess Bride, “I’m swamped.”
I’m heading off to Vardzia for a weekend excursion tomorrow, so there probably won’t be any updates between now and early next week. I have several solid ideas brewing for posts including my long-awaited thoughts on Georgian men and their cars, a glossary of terms that may be helpful to first-time readers, and a dissertation on Georgian names and their uselessness since everyone is referred to simply as Gogo (girl) or Bitcho (boy). But the whole point to this post was to make a ton of excuses that will only help you deduce that I, much like the regulars at Excuses, am a deadbeat. But please excuse my excuses; as Patrick Bateman said in American Psycho, “What can I say, I’m a child of divorce.”
Saturday, November 6, 2010
A look back at the mountains of Samegrelo after a long day of hiking in the foothills. Now I understand when someone told me before I came that the views are reminiscent of Colorado
So I’m going to try something a bit different in this post. Instead of restricting myself with bullets, I’ll just write until I’ve exhausted the topic (or I’m tired of writing). Recently, I’ve felt myself filling space just to reach a quota of ten points, and though I think at times that’s led me to stumbling upon some fairly healthy realizations, for the most part the expectations have made writing feel like more of a chore than a joy. So we’ll see how this works, but it should make my posts briefer and more to the point, which may feel like dumbing things down a bit (more Dan Brown than James Joyce), but since this here ain’t no democracy, there’s little you can do about it.
I was discussing charity with my students today during our weekly English Club (I really need to find a better title, as the current one is a bit bandzi [lame]). I was trying to explain Movember while also raising the idea of starting our own charity at the school (I told them that we had to establish a goal that would be useful [new chalk boards, a community garden, cleaning up the school grounds, etc.] and not what some of the boys suggested [TV-satellite and flat screens]). I’ll let you know how it goes (I told them to come back next week with some ideas), but a majority of the EC members are clever girls (in Georgian English, people are not smart or unintelligent, they’re clever or stupid).
During the discussion, I brought up the term volunteer, which I think is an exceedingly useful word in
This is a group of guys who hang out on the main drag in Martvili and play nardi all day long; this picture was taken at 9 in the morning and they were out there at 9 in the evening
But I ran into trouble when I told them that our program refers to us as volunteers, even though we get paid. It wasn’t that they didn’t get it; it was that I didn’t get it. I stood at the front of the class for a second trying to figure out how that made sense. When I was first reading about the program and coming to Georgia, I was a little startled at how little the monthly salary was (I will not bring up how much it is; if you’re really interested, you can find out on your own). But after I got to
I’m hesitant to say I live like a king here, but compared to my fellow teachers, I think that’s a fair statement. I make much more than them despite the fact that they have families to worry about (most of them are women whose husbands work, but that doesn’t take away from how little they make). If anything, they’re the volunteers.
This is where I'm heading when I die, supposedly.
So, needless to say, I’m hesitant to refer to myself as a volunteer, although if you’ve noticed before, I usually refer to other members of the program as “fellow volunteers.” I think it’s a term I picked up from TLG, since that’s what they call us in any official communication. But again, I wouldn’t call any of us volunteers. When my Mother and Father met in the early-eighties as Visa Vista Volunteers, they were much more deserved of the title, since they made next to nothing and had to pay for their own housing (my Mother at first shared an apartment with another volunteer for $80 a month). My parents were downright poor then, while right now in
Quite often, Georgians have asked me why I came to
Fellow TLGer Darryl, Temuri (random Georgian kid), and myself outside the entrance into the Monastery at Balda
All of my fellow TLG members have their own reasons for coming here, but a majority of us fit the same mold: mid-twenties, college educated, but with little idea of what we want to do. A few of us like to joke that since the program is funded mostly through foreign financial backing (read:
I have little idea of what I want to do with my life, but if I had any aim at all in coming to
Saw this kid at the tolerance concert held in Senaki; he was fifteen at the most, but had a better Mo than me... Oh yeah, Donate!
But here’s the twist. Many of my fellow TLG members only signed up for the six-month contract (and really, it’s more like a four-month contract [mid-August to mid-December]) or they had originally signed the ten-month contract but opted to reduce it. Everyone has their own reasons for this (I don’t know specifics, but if I were to guess it’d be frustration, better opportunities, or just being uncomfortable and missing home), and I’m not about to pass judgment or disparage my colleagues.
Again, I can only speak for myself, but three months doesn’t seem like a long enough time to really make any significant change or impact (school starts in mid-September while we are flown out in mid/late-December, making it just over three months of actual teaching). My mother has been working abroad for the past five years, and on her first assignment in the African country of
A nice shot from my Saturday hike up from the Balda Monastery showing off much of the Samegrelo flatlands in the distance
Now there are definitely some differences between our circumstances (my Mother gets paid a whole lot more, while working under intensely pressurized conditions), but I have the same concerns over leaving early. But really, what it comes down to is why I’m staying rather than why I’m not leaving. There’s two glaring reason, with the first being that I have nothing better to do. I know that sounds like a really bad reason, and maybe it is, but the other presentable options don’t seem nearly as interesting. I could go back to graduate school, but experience always beats education in my eyes. I also might be able to find a better paying TEFL job somewhere else, but I’m not in massive debt and therefore have little monetary motivation. Most important, if I do go elsewhere, there’s no guarantee I would like it as much as
Saw this in the hallway at the school in Senaki; hey, at least they're using the language (plus I learned a new Georgian word)
Which brings me to the second reason, I love it here. I really am convinced that the place I was looking for when I bought a one-way ticket to Firenze this past summer was here in
I doubt I’ll stay in
This was the bonfire they had outside the school in Senaki immediately following the tolerance concert. Some of the students were jumping over it, which would normally be cause for alarm, but in Georgia it's just chalked up to boys being boys
Prologue: So I guess that was kind of similar to my previous posts, as I went from charity to volunteering, to contracts, and right back to my love of
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
In response to a question one of the readers (Irakli) prompted in the comment section a week ago, this post will step back from
The family car, which gets washed every other day. By far, the most important family possession. I hope to have a post on Georgian Men and their manqana (car) obsessions up soon
Erti – What would you change immediately in the country, in the host family, your students and teachers - what inconveniences you or drives you most crazy?
I had to think about this awhile. There are many things I believe to be “backwards” in
Beautiful Svaneti... Again
But the one thing I do find frustrating is the resistance to change or progress. This is especially true in the schools (specifically mine), where they’ve had a way of going about things for so long and at such a comfortable pace, that they are averse to any change whatsoever. It could be the simple things (having teachers’ meetings in the middle of school when classes are going on [and therefore taking away class-time from the students] instead of having the teachers come in early or stay later) or the big things (not splitting up classes based on proficiency; there are kids in my year VII-XI who barely know their alphabet but are still blindly shuffled along with the rest of their class. I could write a dissertation on the problems with this system), but it all depends on one thing: it’s too much work. It’s easier just to keep going on at the status quo as long as it’s comfortable, and it’s always comfortable doing things the way they’ve always been done.
God knows this isn’t restricted to
Luka booting his Rugby ball. The boys love Rugby much like most of Georgia
Ori – What were the most important things you did not take with you but you found out you can't live without them?
I was asked this same question by a New Yorker I met at the sulfur baths in
I might be reusing a few of this picture by now; but this shot just reinforce my longing for a solid two-wheeler
There are certainly some practical things that I wish I had the foresight to bring (more winter clothing becoming more and more apparent as the temperature dips), but those are just things that can be replaced (as my Dad always says, opportunity to upgrade). But if I had to choose one thing, it’d have to be the Kindle my Aunt let me borrow which I left in my room at home (by the way, if someone wants to grab that…). I’m running out of books quickly and recently went to the English bookstore in
And I miss my bike. I rode a rickshaw through college to earn money (sort of a bike-taxi thing with a carriage on the back), so I never really wanted to go biking in my spare time (I always compared it to an accountant doing his taxes when he got off work). But when I moved home a year ago, I started cycling consistently with my father (already an avid cyclist) and came to really love the sport. The time alone is nice (it’s an astoundingly solitary activity), but what I really love is the ability to see so much in such little time (more so than running, plus better for your knees) at a good pace (you can’t really enjoy the sights of the road when you’re in a car, you miss too much). When I first got to
My father and I on our bikes in Tuscon this past March; gettin' is some quality F&S time
But that’s kind of it. Give me my Cervello and a Kindle, and I’d have zero reason to complain. But as for people…
I’ve actually decided not to come back stateside for Christmas and instead head off to
It was a tough decision, because as much as I long for my Kindle, I also miss my family and friends. But—and I might sound like a heartless bastard here—I grew up a very independent person who has gotten used to separation by now. Being a child of divorce, going far away for college, a constantly shifting group of friends… all of these things have helped me to become a very adaptable person. It didn’t take long for me to gain a solid core of friends in Georgia (mostly volunteers) and I already feel like I’m part of a new family here at the Gabunias. Don’t get me wrong, both of these groups would have to go to the end of the world for me before they could replace my friends and family back home, but I feel like wherever I am in my life, as long as I look for it, I’ll have support.
Although it would be nice to see my Annabelle (sister’s dog).
My Annabella; the love of my life
Sami – What would your advice to people who will be coming later on TLG program so they are successful in their jobs? At the same time - what are the greatest obstacles they need to overcome to achieve such a goal?
When I was in
So of course I did what I’ve been doing here for quite some time, I thought about it (I also talked about it with a few of the wiser volunteers). I came up with what I feel like is pretty good advice to anyone coming over here: whatever may happen to you will be unique. There’s no set of guidelines you can follow that can guarantee you will be successful or even like
Again, probably already used this one as well, but it's getting so cold over here, and this is the only source of heat in my house
Just enjoy it as much as you can. Don’t worry (because in
I just realized my answer had little to do with the teaching aspect. So my advice on the actual job side of things is to never be afraid to speak your mind to your fellow teachers or director, and don’t be afraid to be dependent on your fellow volunteers. There are tons of us over here, some with excellent teaching experience, and we are all willing to help because we’ve probably been in the same tough spot before. That’s one of the highlights of TLG, the outreach provided, whether it’s the bigwigs in
Me trying to tempt a stray dog at the Senaki train station. I was a little wet due to an apocalyptic rain shower