Thankful

In true Thanksgiving fashion, here is a picture of Lasha doing something old fashioned and manly: choppin' wood.

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 Southeast Asia for four weeks on the 20^th, so I don’t know what I’ll be doing here during that excursion. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. In the meantime, as promised, here’s a list of things I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving. Yeah, I know Thanksgiving is over, but deal with it.

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 Bandza School, who don’t resent me despite the fact that I make more money while doing far less with little experience to back it up. I’m especially thankful for my wonderfully understanding co-teacher Tamari, my fearsome dance instructor Vephkhvia, and the ever-watchful Soso (who told me last week that Coca Cola causes cancer; I didn’t know how to respond in Georgian with What doesn’t cause cancer?)

Hospitality – The word that defines Georgia. I’m thankful for my host family in particular (which I’ll get to later), but also to all the other families who have provided a roof over my head and enough food to supply a small army. Particularly Ian’s host family in Martvili who has never hesitated to force khatchapuri down my gullet and wine down my throat. Dato and Lali are like my second host-family here and I’m thankful for that trait of hospitality they share with the rest of this country. Just last night I was given another taste of Georgian hospitality. I was in Martvili trying to watch the Real Madrid vs. Barcelona match that started at midnight, but when Dato’s satellite dish couldn’t get the channel that the game was on, he drove us over to his friend’s house to watch the game at 1 a.m. Then when we left after watching Barca put on an absolute clinic, the host gave Ian and I each a bottle of wine. Only in Georgia can you invite yourself over to someone’s house in the middle of the night and leave with a gift.

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 Pittsburgh, where the only season you can really appreciate is Fall (Spring feels like it’s only two weeks long, Winter sucks, and Summer is just three months of miserable humidity). But the weather in Samegrelo for the past three months has only reinforced my belief that Fall is where it’s at; with the brisk but light air, changing of the leaves, and clear skies that have reminded me just how wonderful Autumn is.

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 Georgia. So despite Lasha’s attempted brainwashing, I’m still thankful for Saakashvili.

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.

Georgia – This is a given, but just to reiterate, I’m thankful for everything this small but incredible country has afforded me so far. But I have a feeling it’s just the tip of the iceberg I’m talking about. Here’s to hoping my last six months will be just as memorable as my first four. I’m also thankful for Sakartvelo giving me something interesting to write about.

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 Georgia that make it tough for me to ever feel complacent. Thank you all for your constant help and support; I’ll be missing a ton of you who are leaving in December, although I feel as if that won’t diminish the friendships we’ve built since we were packed into that dorm in the ghetto of Kutaisi. We’re a motley crew, but I wouldn’t trade you for anything.

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.

GNJB Glossary of Terms

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 Moscow, and they met when Lasha was working there in the mid-ninety’s. She definitely feels more like a mother than a sister, since she does everything for me (cooking, laundry, and cleaning my room when I go away on weekends). She knows a little more English than Lasha, is absurdly kind and patient with me, and is always busy doing something (cooking, cleaning, or even helping out on the farm). I almost never see her eat, and if I do, just like for the mother from A Christmas Story, it’s never a warm or fresh meal.

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 India, and is currently visiting her daughter’s family in Belgium. Not your typical Georgian grandmother, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t still milk the cows in the morning and go around pinching every young boy’s cheek.

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 Paris  of the Martvili district.

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 Tbilisi. You can read more about it by clicking on the link in my sidebar, but basically it’s a government program that’s goal is to make English the official second-language of Georgia within five years. They plan on placing upwards of one thousand English speakers throughout the schools of Georgia  by next year. I’ve already said more than I should on a public forum regarding TLG, but it’s an extremely aggressive plan and endeavor that has given us TLGers every opportunity to shape and mold the program to whatever we deem necessary given our situations.

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.

Georgian Diagnoses, Riding to School, & Tsudi Studenti

This was the daughter of the woman who ran our guesthouse in Mestia. So cute that I can't even make fun of the ridiculous lipstick she put on to impress me.

You want to know what they do on Saturday in Bandza? They prepare to go to a soccer game at noon—which was a comedy of errors in itself seeing Reziko trying to open the gate with a cat wrapped in a plastic bag in one hand (we were giving away one of our house cats to a friend) and then slowly driving away as Luka ran after (Luka is always lagging behind)—but the game actually didn’t start until two o’clock, so we drove around Bandza for a few minutes until returning home. Then at one forty-five, we found out the game was cancelled due to rain. Oh, Bandza.

Ati – In my last post, I tried to dispel the notion that I was the Georgian equivalent of Boris Yeltsin. In this post, I’d like to start by addressing another somewhat alarming impression I may have made on readers, but hopefully accomplish this with more brevity. I’m not some sickly Tiny Tim or hypochondriac. I have been sick twice in the past month, but both were just 24-hour viruses that I believe stemmed from something I ate. They both had the same symptoms, which I will spare you the details of, but for the most part, I think it’s just an occupational hazard that I’ll get over in good time.

Saw this advertisement for money exchange in Batumi; notice the sole c-note trying to cover up the abundance of $1. It's like out of a budget rap-video.

Otsi – Speaking of symptoms and remedies, Georgians have quite the theories on how to treat illness. The farther you’re outside of civilization, the stranger it gets. I’ve been fed salt-water, pills that I don’t think are approved by any governing body, and forced to eat frog’s leg stew (that last one is a lie). Other popular remedies include drinking Nabeghlavi (the most popular mineral water in Georgia that cures anything from a broken leg to cancer) and drinking tchatcha to settle the stomach (I’ve not had this suggested to me, but other volunteers have).

This was a shot from outside Mestia; notice the outhouse that leads to stream, that leads to the Enguri River, that leads to the Reservoir outside of Zugdidi

Otsdaati - The causes for sickness that Georgians come up with are even more absurd. Having wet hair in the morning can lead to pneumonia according to some (this has caused issues with volunteers whose mothers insist that they don’t wash their hair in the morning, which for some American girls is like telling them not to shave their upper-lip). Catching cold is another sticking point with many Georgians; they’re like a Jewish mother when it comes to bundling up before you go out. My theory on this is two pronged; 1). Most Georgians think that America is some tropical utopia that never gets cold, so our blood is thin and we’re one layer away from whooping cough (in fact, I have a feeling what I’ll go through here will be a bit colder, and longer but with less snow as compared to a typical Pittsburgh winter) and 2). They care deeply about our well-being and think we don’t know any better (this is a good thing).

I found this picture highly amusing; Luka grabbed my camera and took several photos just like this. What a narcissist; like host-brother like guest-brother, I guess

Ormotsi – The only other male-teacher in my school, Soso, insists I’m getting sick because I drink too much coca-cola (I usually go to the market mid-day to buy a snickers and a coke; but it’s not like I’m some caffeine-crazed teenager), so he’s given me a jar of his family’s honey and showed me how to make honey-water. I’m pretty sure that’s what health-freaks and alcoholics drink when trying to cleanse their system, but I’ve followed suit just to please Soso, who is the only man in Georgia I’ve yet to see raise his voice. Super soft spoken, built like a beanpole, and incredibly intelligent (at least it seems that way), Soso takes it upon himself to treat any foreigner as if they’re family, and with good reason. When his sister moved to Greece and her job fell through, she was taken in by a Greek family who set her up and saved her from homelessness. Sort of a pay-it-forward attitude that I admire, and one day hope to do my own part because I certainly owe somebody something.

This was the stove we used at our guesthouse in Mestia. It took a while to warm up, but the food tasted all the much better realizing it was cooked with wood, fire, and iron.

Ormotsdaati – Since we’re near the topic of school, one thing I’ve noticed that I find endearing beyond belief is how the kids get to school. Most walk in groups, but the younger ones (Year I-III) usually walk with their parents (usually their Deda [Mother]), who actually spend the whole day at school waiting in the hallways and attending to their children during the breaks. It’s a bit odd to constantly see parents hanging out in the hallway on the first floor, but maybe it’s just the first month of school type of thing, or perhaps the parents are just really attached to their young ones here in Bandza (most likely scenario).

Trying to climb a fallen tree in the forest near Mestia. Notice the handy walking stick and fleece wrapped around my waist like Zack Morris circa '90

Samotsi – But back to school commuting; sometimes I see a mama (father) riding his daughter to school sitting on the handlebars of his bicycle. Some of you may think that’s a dangerous safety hazard (to which a Georgian might reply, what’s a safety hazard?), but when you see it in person, it’s so damn cute; with the little girl’s legs dangling off the front end while the father slowly but proudly weaves his way through the streets of Bandza. It’s a thing of poetry. I would love to do that with my daughter someday, although I might get arrested for reckless endangerment if I try it in the States.

This is TLG celebrity Raughley "Snoop" Nuzzi and I rocking what we call our Petroni shirts. When we put these on we turn into overbearing (in a good way) Georgian host-brothers. The joke here is that every man in Georgia owns a shirt just like this.

Samotsdaati – There’s a few things I’ve noticed in class that are good to know, especially when I’m left alone to teach my toughest classes (VII-IX). It’s already gotten to the point where they don’t giggle when I sternly say tchuma (which, I think, means quiet), because they react much better to that than if I say quiet or stop talking in English. The other thing I love, which I haven’t used yet but plan on, is when someone is talking or doing something that might disrupt the class, out of nowhere the teacher yells that students name followed by ra ginda? Literally, it only means what do you want, but in translation it sort of means shut up or why are you talking? Again, these are only for my year VII-IX classes, which are filled with kids who’d rather not be there, and show their dissatisfaction by firing spit balls across the room, constantly trying to sneak notes to each other, and doing anything else to draw attention to themselves. But I’d rather not talk about that here, at least not until I find a solid solution (I want to say don’t leave me alone with them, but that seems lame and weak; not a solution but an aversion). But I’d like to bring up a thought I’ve been pondering since about a week ago when a year XII student asked me, “Were you a good student in school?” I’ve discussed it in brief here, but I was not an exemplary student at the Shady Side Academy Senior School. I was an excellent student until I got to about grade seven and my focus shifted to girls, sports, and things that entertained me (The Simpsons, Conan O’Brien, and terrible movies) rather than burdened me (school work).

This kid rode past us on his horse at break-neck speed on the trail up the side of the mountain in Svaneti, which made me and my walking stick feel like giants panzies.

Otkhmotsi – High school was much of the same thing, as I relied on my natural intelligence and did just enough to float by, which at my school put you in the bottom quarter of the class but still got you into a decent college. There were certain teachers and subjects that caught my attention from time to time (Mr. Murphy’s creative writing class was the first time I realized I actually enjoyed writing while I was always enthusiastic about advanced math [a fact that amazes me now]), but to use the common Australian phrase, I couldn’t be fucked with school. Things changed when I got to college and I had much more free time on my hands, did not have athletic obligations every evening, and got to really explore different subjects and departments (Calculus II made me realize I would not be a math major, while Paul Allen’s English 101 class helped me realize what I’d be doing the next four years). But before college, I was definitely more Steve Sanders than Brandon Walsh (90210 reference). 

A view of Mestia from one of the towers in Svaneti. Now you can take touristy photos, but before you could throw rocks at enemey invaders. How quaint...

Otkhmotsdaati – I can blame time restraints, teachers, or outside influences all I want: mainly a single-parent home and a few rather apathetic friends (although all of my remaining friends from high school were excellent students then, and in turn academically accomplished in college and professionally successful now; in fact, I’m at a loss why they’ve stuck with me this long). But I’m now convinced my immaturity was the root of my youthful lethargy. Trying to figure out why I was that way would take a room full of shrinks and not enough time, so I won’t go into it. But I was not a good student in high school.

This was an Abkhaz refugee named Levan who we met on our way back from Mestia. He struck up a conversation as he spoke a little English, then insisted that he buy us all Cokes and Fantas; only in Georgia will a political refugee buy someone else something

Atsi – Which is exactly what I told my student when she asked. But I came up with what I believe to be a pretty accurate theory on how my experience shaped my future endeavors. I told the class that the reason I became a teacher was to try to atone for my previous lassitude. Again, I don’t want to blame my teachers for my scholarly attitude in high school, but I definitely went to a school where the teachers expected the students to come to them, because those are the type of students Shady Side breeds; self-reliant, motivated, future leaders of America. But I wasn’t ready for that. And I’m pretty sure a majority of 15-18 year olds share the same sentiment. So that’s what I’m doing here right now. First I need to find out if I’m cut out for it, and if I am, then I’ll do everything I can to find those students who just need a little push to get going, because I know they’re out there. It takes one to know one, I guess.

Fair Fights, Crossing of Legs, & Inherent Knowledge

So I haven’t been fired yet! That’s a reason to celebrate, is it not? So here’s ten more thoughts on the first few weeks of teaching that may or may not piss some people off (I would bet on the former).

Ati – You know how I’ve brought up the rule of three? Something to do with the holy trinity or something or other. Well it’s reared its ugly head in the classroom, where it’s commonplace for students to raise their hand while spastically fluttering their hand about and shouting Mas, mas, mas! Mas is short for mastsavlebeli (teacher), which is how the students address their teachers. I’m all for enthusiastically wanting to participate in class, but I’ve already laid down the law that the more noise you make the less likely I’ll call on you. It still hasn’t worked though, and unfortunately, Tamari has taught my year Vs (my largest, most hyper and enthusiastic class) to say May I?, which I’ll tolerate just for the purpose of getting the students to use English, even if they don’t really know what they’re saying. I’ve also weaned them off of calling me Mas and towards calling me Teacher. Baby steps.

Otsi – It’s written in our contract that under no circumstances are we supposed to use physical force in the classroom, which is fine by me; I’m currently dabbling in pacifism anyway. But that doesn’t mean the Georgian teachers aren’t hands on when they need to be. No one’s getting smacked around or anything, but it’s quite common for a teacher to grab a kid’s ear (usually a boy in the age range of ten to fourteen who somewhat resembled myself at that age; a complete pain in the ass) and give it a little twist. It’s harmless and does the trick, so I’m all for it; add in the fact that it’s a breath of fresh air when compared to how children are treated in America where kids have more rights than minorities. Although I don’t know if that beats the teachers answering their cell phones in the middle of class (yes, that does happen).

Otsdaati – Speaking of rough-housing, we have ten minute breaks in between classes, and generally I head to the teachers’ lounge to prepare for the next lesson or just read my book. But a few times I’ve either waited around in the hallway or went to class a bit early, and it’s like a war-zone out there. Kids are running around, chasing each other, wrestling, or just straight-up fighting. It strikes me all as quite Darwinistic because they behave pretty well for forty-five minutes, then that bell rings and it’s like all the rules are dropped, the teachers turn the cheek, and all hell breaks loose. Just last week I had to break up a hair-puling fight between two ten-year old girls, a first (and hopefully a last) for me. It was terrifying. Sometimes I watch the boys playing soccer in the yard during the breaks, and it resembles nothing similar to the beautiful game, but more like a mixture of rugby and MMA. Needless to say, I won’t be joining in anytime soon as I don’t think my insurance covers getting my ass kicked by my students.

Ormotsi – But I don’t really blame them for having so much pent up energy and not having a means of release. There’s not much going on at the school. I’m not going to compare it to my own experience, sine I went to one of the better private schools in the state and resembled a country club more than an academic institution (my father loved to give me the business about it too: You don’t want to be late, the cappuccino service ends at 8:30). But the lack of resources is astounding.

Ormotsdaati – Resource isn’t a word I thought much about when it comes to teaching and learning, but coming here made me realize how vital it is to the process. The Bandza School has one computer with no Internet access, they don’t have a printer or a copier, half the classrooms don’t have lighting, most of the students don’t have books or workbooks, there’s no in-door plumbing while water is taken from a well etc. I’m not complaining, as God knows there are schools in the world that don’t even have chalkboards (in Bandza, all of our classrooms have chalkboards while the students generally supply the chalk, which I found both amusing and quite thoughtful), but it does make you cognizant of the importance of resources, and how they are consistently taken advantage of or even completely ignored back in the States (I would kill for a day in an English library). As I said in my previous post, I feel like once I get finished here, I’ll be prepared to teach anywhere.

Samotsi – It’s always funny how even the most apathetic kids can seem motivated in the first few weeks of school. I was one of those kids; this year’s gonna be different, I’m gonna pay attention in class, I’m gonna take notes, I’m gonna meet with my teachers more… Yeah, right. Usually this new found scholarly attitude would last less than a month before I was spacing off in class, thinking about God knows what (usually how many chicken sandwiches I would wolf down in the day’s lunch period or how I was going to score booze for the upcoming weekend [JTTT]). I get the same feeling from certain students in Bandza; that feeling that they’d just rather not be there (since I used to be one of them, I know their characteristics and mannerisms) but I can tell they have that beginning of school buzz, even if it’s starting to wear off ever so slowly. Even the enthusiasm (or wonderment) directed towards me has faded just a bit. I’m just trying to enjoy it while it lasts and maybe figure out a way to keep it going.

Samotsdaati – I guess I don’t understand how good I have it. Tamari has told me that the students behave so much better when I am in the classroom, which is why even if I’m not doing much, she prefers to have me there. In fact, she’s even used me as a way to bribe the students into behaving better. If I’m not sitting in on a lesson (usually because Tamari tells me I don’t have to, “It does not matter.”) and the students ask, where is Max? She will tell them that I did not come because they were acting up in the previous class. It’s a complete lie, but whatever works…

Otkhmotsi– This doesn’t have much to do with teaching, but I thought of it while observing a class the other day. Georgian men have an unbelievable ability to cross their legs at a disturbing angle. It starts at a young age, as one of my students (Padri) crosses his legs to a degree that it makes me queasy just to look at (please don’t ask me why I note the level to which my boy students cross their legs). But you’ll see many older Georgian men also crossing their legs like there’s nothing in between them. It’s mostly the skinny guys who have twigs for legs, like Murmani (my hero/P.E. teacher). I mean, I’m no John Holmes, but if I lift my right leg up onto my left leg past the upper ankle, I start to get a little light-headed. So the fact that most Georgian men can’t fit a ruler in between their legs when crossed is either impressive or just plain weird. But I will say this, a man who can cross his legs, thigh over thigh, while looking comfortable comes off as much more intelligent and distinguished. Maybe it’s just that every picture I’ve ever seen of Abe Lincoln had him with his twigs crossed over each other in a way that defies physics. And no one was more intelligent or distinguished than Abe Lincoln, sexual orientation be damned.

Otkhmotsdaati – I started on this in the last post, but the difference between who I was teaching during my TEFL course and who I’m teaching now is night and day. The older Italians I was teaching in Florence paid next to nothing to attend, but wanted to be there, which is nine tenths of motivation; just showing up when you really don’t have to (they paid for a certain amount of lessons with no cancellation fee, so if they didn’t want to come, they didn’t come). Not all of my current students don’t want to be in school, but there’s definitely a few that couldn’t be bothered with it, and those kids tend to be the same boys that get their ears twisted by the teachers. This particularly pertains to my VII-IX classes, which are larger (after ninth grade, you can choose between English and Russian, so the classes are smaller) and consistently have five or six boys who don’t pay attention, talk the entire class, and can’t wait to unleash hell after that bell rings. I’ve suggested splitting them up within the classroom, which seemed revolutionary to Tamari (they’ve not quite grasped the idea of assigned seating at my school), so we’ll see if it helps. Isolating the problem usually makes it easier to solve, or at least keeps it from spreading for the time being.

Saati – And lastly, back to my stupidity. It amazes me how little I know about the English language. We all know it, but why or how we know it can range from zero, to some-what. This brings me back to my Latin classes, where I started to realize there were rules and grammar constructions within a language. Amazingly, this is something we only grasp once we begin to learn a foreign language. Generally, you don’t have to learn the rules of your own language because you inherently know them (I’d say we’re born with them, but more or less we learn them from our parents from when we’re sucking on the teet to when we’re potty trained [for some it takes longer, like the citizens of West Virginia]). Generally for TEFL jobs, the most important requirement is being a native English speaker, but I think it’s just as vital to have a thorough understanding of the rules and makeup of our own language (part of the reason some of the best English teachers I’ve met aren’t native speakers is because they had to learn the rules that we naturally but unknowingly follow). So I make sure to bone up on my own knowledge before teaching or diagramming a grammar point, because nothing makes me feel as dumb as standing up at the chalkboard and trying to remember the rules to the second conditional. That kind of reminds me of this story about Ted Williams, probably the most natural hitter to ever play baseball, and his attempt at being a hitting coach. When his players came to him asking what was the best way to hit a slider, he just said, “You see the spin, expect it to break, and you hit it.” Of course it’s not that easy, but for a baseball genius like Williams, it really was that easy. I’m no genius, but as much as I want to say it’s like this because I said so, that probably isn't the best way to teach.

For some reason, the pictures are not uploading correctly, hopefully I'll have them soon...

Daily Schedule, 'Have You Got', & Why My Latin Sucks

A picture from the monastery in Martvili, the town just ten kilometers away from me where they had a celebration this past weekend in honor of the famous teacher of David the Builder, who was apparently, a pretty big deal back in the day.

Here come the sweeping judgments I promised just a week ago: it’s backwards, all the students are ignorant, and no one speaks English. Happy? Well I’m not, so here’s a little more introspective thinking.

Ati – Before I go on, no matter what I say or write about my experience of teaching at the Bandza School, it will be unique from other TLG volunteers’ own circumstances. We might share similar problems, but for the most part, everybody has a different situation. Some teach more hours, some have less reasonable co-teachers, some have more structure, etc. My situation is my situation, and does not represent the TLG experience or the education system in Georgia. It’s like the Jersey Shore; those highly entertaining deadbeats do not represent the people of the great state of New Jersey, just the riffraff that go down the shore in the summers.

This is Ian's Grandpa Giorgi, who resembles my own Grandpa in that he's always smiling and looks way past his due date

Otsi – Let me take you through a typical day of teaching in Bandza. I wake up at around 7:30 a.m., check my email and see how much the Pirates lost by in the previous night, take a shower, and eat with the boys at around 8:15 a.m. If I have a lesson in the first period (which starts at 9 a.m.), I leave right after breakfast as it takes me about twenty minutes to walk to school (a little over a kilometer). Sometimes I get a ride from Lasha if it’s raining or someone recognizes me as the new American English teacher in town and stops to give me a ride, but then on those really special occasions I hitch a ride in a horse and cart (true story; it was like going to the prom in your Dad’s antique Porsche, except the complete opposite). Each lesson is forty-five minutes, with ten minute breaks in between. There are seven periods in each day, but I’m not sure why because no one has class in that seventh period. So my day generally runs from 9 a.m. (but only on Monday and Thursday do I have a first period lesson) to 2:20 p.m. On any given day, I will have between three and five lessons that I sit in on, but I am only the head-teacher for eleven lessons a week. I bet you’re wondering what the hell a head-teacher is?

Ian's neighbor V, who is a perverted old man, which also means he is hilarious

Otsdaati – When we started school, I had agreed with Tamari (one of the two English teachers in Bandza, and my main means of communication) that I’d sit in on all the classes and after a full week of observation, we’d figure out what was the best way to use me. See, I’m like a new toy that the Ministry of Education handed to this school, but with zero instructions on how to be used. Which is fine by me, since that allows me to dictate the terms of my teaching. So I sat in on classes for a little over a week (and no, I didn’t just sit there; I brought in my computer to show them pictures of Pittsburgh and the fam damily [including a few pictures of my father asleep on the couch with the cat resting on his belly; everyone really liked those], while I also took control of the class a few times when I wanted to diagram a grammar point). And at the end I decided it’d be best if I took complete control of three of Tamari’s classes and one of Eka’s (the other English teacher). That means I plan and run the lesson, while the other teacher is there to translate if necessary (more like a safety net than anything). As for the other classes, I will still attend them and help when needed, but I won’t be counted on to run or plan the lessons.

My neighbor and I at the monastery; I was waiting for a marshrutka by the side of the road and he picked me up. Doesn't speak a word of English but treats me like his own son...

Ormotsi – So I’m teaching the year XI’s, X’s, V’s, and one of Eka’s classes to be determined. That may not seem like a lot (it’s only eleven lessons a week, which at forty-five minutes a lesson comes out to just over eight hours of actual teaching a week). But considering the time I put into planning the lessons along with sitting in on the other lessons (probably another twelve hours of class time), I’ll still have a relatively busy schedule. I also set up office hours where the students can come to me if they are having problems (a sort of defacto English Club; I have a feeling no one will come, so I’m planning on having Pepsi and cookies by the second week. I remember what it was once like to be a student—Free food? I’m there) while also presented an option to the other teachers that I’ll give them a lesson of English once a week (they all seem eager to learn the basics of English, and receptive towards the idea).

From a mural inside the monastery in Martvili; I have zero idea who these guys are, but they look important...

Ormotsdaati – So that’s the boring schedule stuff; now to the good shit. The first thing I want to bring up, which tends to be a popular subject here at GNJB, is my stupidity. In the midst of the first lesson I taught during my TEFL course (Teaching English as a Foreign Language; a certification course I took in Florence, Italy which qualifies you to teach English anywhere in the world), I misspelled apartment by putting an extra p in there for some reason. It was quite embarrassing, but hardly the last time I will misspell a word when teaching. Thanks to the computer, spell-check, and acronyms, my generation has been forged on the inability to spell, and I of course am no outlier.

The grounds of the monastery we visited on Saturday (not the one in Martvili, this one was farther up in the mountains near a town called Salkino [spelling?]); there was a suphra being held for all the big wigs and for some reason, us teachers were invited. The tables can be seen in the background and there were a few of them; probably seated about 200 people all in all

Samotsi – But the shortcomings in my grasp of the English language don’t only lend themselves to spelling; Pittsburgh, as proud as I am of my hometown, has caused me to come off as an ignorant simpleton quite frequently. I’m fond of using a double negative from time to time (a Pittsburgh staple) while also forgetting an article or extra preposition every now and then (I’m heading down the stadium; is there supposed to be a to somewhere in there?). So it didn’t surprise me when I assigned the fifth graders a home task that involved them using the phrase have you got? I blame the student who asked me the day before, “Have you got a sister?” I lapsed back into my old self like I was casually talking to some guy named Vito at Penn Mac on a busy Saturday morning, “Hey, you got any of ‘at prosciutto left?” Needless to say, I ain’t no English scholar.

Georgian Folk Singers at the suphra on Saturday. I need to get me one of them outfits...

Samotsdaati – Speaking of my TEFL course in Italy, it was one of the better academic experiences in my life. Pound for pound, that was the most knowledge I acquired in such a short period of time. The course melded a crash course in English grammar, lesson planning, teaching tactics, and the actual act of teaching (nothing equips you to accomplish things in life like actual experience). After those four weeks, I felt like I could teach anyone English anywhere in the world. And though I’m not about to retract that belief, coming here and teaching is definitely a bit of a reality check. But it’s good for me, knocks me down a peg or two because contrary to popular belief, I am not Socrates.

The kids of the Martvili district showing us some Georgian Folk Dancing, which is amazing... Sure beats the hell out of So You Think You Can Dance

Otkhmotsi – Let’s start with the alphabet. It’s easy to teach Italians because they have the same alphabet, but Georgians have a completely different Cyrillic alphabet of 33 different letters and sounds (similar to Italian, they pronounce every letter the same way and don’t have silent letters like us crazy English speakers), while the English alphabet has 26 letters and 35+ sounds. So that’s the first thing that all students must learn, but unfortunately, due to the ever-changing environment of the Georgian educational system, not every student knows the alphabet (there’s some students in my year VIII class who don’t know the alphabet, and even a few year X’s and XII’s). Part of the reason for TLG is that the government wants to make English the second language of Georgia, so the students that were learning Russian, German, or French before (the three most popular other foreign languages) are now thrust into an English classroom. But it’s not all on the system, because many of the students just don’t care, or think they can start taking an English class midway through high school. But it’s not like it is back in the States; students aren’t split into classes by ability, instead just ushered along with the rest of their year. But despite my vast intentions, I cannot single-handedly change the system. I have to do the best with what I have.

This gent was like that one guy at a String Cheese Incident concert who took one too many hits of acid... except this was a children's dance recital

Otkhmotsdaati – This brings up another thought I’ve had rumbling around my head for quite some time. Learning a language is a lot like learning math or the sciences. You need to build a solid foundation if you’re ever going to succeed at the higher levels. You can’t understand calculus if you don’t know multiplication just like you can’t understand the perfect tense if you first don’t understand how to conjugate to have. I often come to this realization when thinking about my English degree and how I didn’t come to literature or writing until much later in life. You don’t need to have read Shakespeare to enjoy Hemmingway. All you have to do is know how to string words together (also known as reading) and have an open mind. That’s why I became an English major when I just started to enjoy learning and being a student while in college; my previous laziness and apathy don’t really come back to bite me when it comes to literature. Yeah, it’d be nice to be a little more well-read, but I have the rest of my life to devour James, Tolstoy, and Faulkner.

David the Dancer taking a drink the Georgian way; doing a split, picking it up with your mouth, and then tipping it up all without the help of your hands.

Asi – But every time there’s a Jeopardy answer with a reference to Latin, I think, “Wait, why don’t I know this? I took seven years of Latin… Oh yeah, it’s because I didn’t give a shit so I don’t remember anything.” I didn’t exactly flourish in Italian while in college either, but I blame that on my professors more than anything (I know, lame, but they were really quite terrible). But in acquiring a language, it’s so important to build a solid foundation, or else you’ll have nothing to build on later (yeah, I used the foundation/building metaphor… what of it?). So I’m trying to keep that in mind when teaching the younger kids, because there’s nothing worse than seeing a year XI zoned out while looking out the window because five years earlier they didn’t understand how to conjugate to be.

This was the contraption they used to get water from the river at the monastery where the suphra was held. It flung a bucket down about fifty meters to the river, filled itself up, and then was wound back up to the top. Water tastes so much better when you have to fetch it with an ancient pulley system.

Loud Voices, Board Games & 'It Does Not Matter'

So I told myself that I’d give it about a week before I’d make any sweeping judgments about teaching or school, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t have a few intermediary thoughts. I think I have 11-20 down by now, so I’ll go on to 10-100, because the market owners in Bandza are probably getting fed up of having to communicate prices via calculator.

Ati – My second favorite teacher at the school in Bandza (well, I should probably say the second most entertaining teacher) behind Murmani, my decrepit chain-smoking P.E. teacher, has to be the Russian teacher. I don’t even know her name, but she cracks me up. She’s also old, with long white hair and a permanent scowl on her face. If I was a student there, I’d be terrified of her. Actually, I’m pretty sure everyone is terrified of her, including the other teachers. Anytime she speaks in the teachers’ lounge, her eyes grow wide, her voice raises an octave, and she spews out very loud but punctual Georgian. But, no matter what, she always has the last say. So why do I like her? Whenever she does have some sort of shouting argument with anyone, she’ll turn away, catch my eye, and wink at me with a slight smile; almost as if to say, “I’m really not that mean, but I just like fuckin’ with everybody.” I guess she trusts this secret with only me, because I seem to be the only one who finds it entertaining.

Ian's Host-Father Dato and myself at my birthday celebration in Martvili. Dato kargi katsia

Otsi – I remember watching a Simpsons episode when I was younger in which Lisa is lost in Springfield and stumbles upon the Russian neighborhood. When she asks for directions, an old man playing chess screams back at her in Russian, causing her to run away. But in subtitles the man is in fact giving polite and precise directions. I’d never met any Russians, but this was always how I assumed they spoke; the volume or urgency of their speech had little to do with the content. I still haven’t met any Russians (except for my host-deda [mother] Ira, although she never yells) but I’m pretty sure most Georgians, especially the men, have little control over the volume of their voice (kind of like Jacob Silge, a Will Farrell character from SNL; very underrated). So if two men are just rapidly yelling at each other (like Murmani and Donaldi were on the first day of school), they could in fact just be discussing the delightful weather or sharing an amusing anecdote. The only guy I’m sure was pretty angry was that crazy guy on the marshrutka to Anaklia a while back; although even then I could be wrong. He could have just been suggesting an alternate route.

The Palace in Zugdidi, or as I like to call it, the Paris of Samegrelo

Otsdaati – Speaking of chess, I bought a small portable set that looks like someone had originally carved up whilst doing time in Siberia. It’s perfect for carrying around and only cost ten Lari in Tbilisi ($6). Unfortunately my family prefers checkers (Luka’s favorite game), dominoes (Reziko’s game of choice), or nardi (the Turkish name for backgammon). One afternoon, when the power was out, Reziko handedly beat me in dominoes, Luka dominated me in checkers (of which he was hardly humble about), and a cousin wiped the floor with me in nardi. Everybody in Georgia plays nardi, and they do it with a flair and confidence that can both amaze and bother you.

My host-brother Luka, who does not know how to destroy me in checkers with any humility

Ormotsi – If you don’t know how to play nardi or backgammon, I won’t bore you with the details, but it involves tossing a pair of dice and moving pieces around a board in a clockwise direction. There’s definitely some strategy to the game; enough so that I lose every time I play a Georgian but usually win anytime I play someone with less experience (a.k.a. other volunteers who I’ve just taught how to play). But during a majority of the game, depending on the placement of your chips, there’s an obvious move for each roll. But it doesn’t matter if you just started playing and you have to think it through for a moment, if you’re playing a Georgian and you take longer than five seconds to figure out your move, they’ll move the pieces for you. In fact, you can literally play an entire game without thinking for yourself. It actually takes any fun out of the game, which is why I try to avoid playing other Georgians (at least until I’m good enough to play at their pace), but I don’t know how to say, “Cut it out and let me think for myself.” They just wouldn’t understand, because in their mind, they’re only trying to help you.

Playing nardi like a real amateur

Ormotsdaati – While I was waiting for my marshrutka in Senaki a few weeks back, I was rummaging through my backpack looking for a book when the guy next to me saw my chess set and communicated to me that we should play. I’m pretty sure this guy was crazy, but it’s really hard to pinpoint the crazies in Georgia, because they’re all a little bit off. I think it comes down to the notion that they all want to hug you and maybe plant a kiss on your cheek, and if a stranger (especially of the same sex) wants to have any physical contact with you in the States, you automatically think he’s crazy.

Two old Georgians playing chess on the sidewalks of Tbilisi; crowd barely seen in the background

Sammotsi – Anyway, this guy (who didn’t speak a lick of English) and I end up playing a game of chess in front of half the bus station (when you play chess in Georgia, it’s never a private affair. People huddle around, although they don’t make suggestions obnoxiously; they only judge quietly with a hand on their chin and a serious gaze). I’m pretty sure he let me win, but it just so happened that said crazy guy/chess opponent was on my marshrutka back to Bandza. He kept speaking to me with great enthusiasm while I tried to express to him that I didn’t understand anything he said (ver gavige is the phrase I use the most here, just as it was in Italy: non ho capito). Eventually the guy sitting next to me who spoke some English translated that the gentleman wanted me to come back to his house in Martvili and drink tchatcha (homemade vodka that’s about seventy proof). As much as I try to never say no to these types of invitations because I know a good story would come of it, I still wasn’t feeling well from my Tbilisi trip. I’d also be lying if I didn’t say I had some reservations about ending up in the bottom of a well while being told in Georgian, “It puts the lotion on it’s skin.”

Speaking of weirdos, there was a West Virginia state flag hanging in one of the pubs of Tbilisi

Samotsdaati – But I don’t always say no to tchatcha. This past Shabati (Saturday), I was heading to Senaki for a fellow volunteer’s dabedebis dghes (birthday). I was planning on taking the 8 a.m. marshrutka that goes all the way to Zugdidi, as I was sure that one left on time in the morning (the earlier the marshrutka, the more likely it will be on time or even show up at all), but Reziko convinced me to take the one at eleven. I don’t know what it was about that morning, but for some reason I wasn’t in the best of moods (I think it had something to do with the food; it gets a bit monotonous at times). So when the marshrutka didn’t show up and Reziko just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Next marshrutka, two o’clock,” I was a little ticked. I know it’s not my host family’s job to have the marshrutka schedule memorized, but it had been maybe the fifth time in a row that their times were off, and I also know that it’s not the most concise or reliable means of transportation… But the whole thing just pissed me off. Don’t these people know I have plans and a schedule?

Otkhmotsi – I didn’t want to take it out on Reziko. It wasn’t his fault (well, maybe it was a little bit his fault) and it wasn’t like he deliberately wanted me to miss my bus. But if I’m going to stew and feel sorry for myself, I’m going to do it alone. So I told Reziko I could handle it myself and let him head back to the house. After waiting there a moment while wallowing in my own pity, I decided to head into town, where I knew I wouldn’t miss a ride heading to Senaki. Just as I was about to leave, my neighbor, who runs a very small convenience store where the road to my house and the main road meet, invited me to sit down with him and two other men behind his shop. I thought, what the hell, I could use whatever they may be offering. Five bottles of home-made tchatcha and ninety minutes later, I had forgotten my worries and had a ride already set up for me to Senaki.

This was the group at the beginning of my neighbor's make-shift lunch (notice the one already empty bottle of tchatcha beneath the table/stool)

Otkhmotsdaati – When we sat down near the ditch that runs behind his shop, it was just four of us (all older men from Bandza), and they immediately poured a full glass of tchatcha and toasted to me as a guest. When I told them about Ali’s birthday, we toasted to her, and of course we toasted to all the other things we usually toast to (peace, countries, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, children, the dead…), hence the massive amounts of vodka consumed. They also had some bread, sliced up tomatoes (these are included in every meal), and sausage, all of which was continually refilled by the host’s wife, who was working in the shop during this whole time. As time went by and we tried to communicate about my situation (my neighbor took my phone, called someone up the road, and then told me not to worry), every older guy that rode his bike past the shop was flagged down and told to join. By the time my marshrutka did show up, there were about ten men stuffed behind that small market, all taking turns at toasts and shots. The best part of it all was when I got off at my stop, the marshrutka driver wouldn’t even take my money. Sometimes, it’s nice to know people.

My neighbor with his youngest son, who, obviously, had seen this all before

Asi – I’m not really doing the whole situation justice, but the point is that in Georgia, no matter how frustrating things get, it always seems to work out. I know that won’t always be the case, but so far it’s been pretty consistent. The key on my end is to always have that mind frame of, “Sometimes, you just have to say, ‘what the fuck’.” Because I’m pretty sure that’s the mind-frame of most Georgians. My co-English teacher Temari has a great sense of humor and (as far as I can tell) is a pretty good teacher, but one of her most-used English phrases is, “It does not matter.” When I was sick on the second day of class (not the I-don’t-want-to-go-to-school sick, more like the I-hurled-out-of-my-window-last-night sick), I called her in the morning to tell her I wouldn’t be able to come in, and she just replied, “It does not matter.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or take offense.

The group behind my neighbor's convenient store by the time my marshrutka came; it was quite the gathering