No you can't.

Tuesday, May 17^th, 3:30pm

The sun is shining as I walk out of the schoolhouse with the half dozen students who stayed after class for English Club. The small mountains on both sides of our village are finally green and just begging to be explored. No one really wants to spend the evening at home, so we decide to go for a hike.

4:00 pm

By the time we are on the mountain behind my house, we’ve gathered a few more students and make quite a motley crew: myself, my little brother and sister, a girl from 7^th grade, a girl from 9^th grade and her brother from 8^th, the chemistry teacher’s son from 4^th grade, the 11^th grade boy she had just finished tutoring, and two other high school boys. One thing I love about these small villages is that all the kids hang out with all the kids. Sure, in the public school in my hometown a 15-year-old would be able to socialize with literally hundreds of other kids…but they would ALL be within an age range of a few years. There is something to be said for the sense of community at a school with not even 200 students in all grades 1-12.

As we are making our way to a 200-year-old bridge in between two hills, I get a call from the school director’s granddaughter. The girl is only 16 but practically home schooled herself into speaking English fluently, and I consider her a personal friend.

“Hey, I need to talk to you about English Day.”

Yes, English Day! It’s less than a week away now. I’ve convinced four of my TLG friends to come to my village on Saturday. I just need the director to open the school for me and for a couple of local teachers to come and help with discipline. We’ll do English workshops and games with the kids, complete with stickers and prizes. I’ve also been working with my English Club attendees through different levels in my Excellence in English Program, and while more foreigners are around would be the perfect time to present their award certificates.

“I’m really sorry, I don’t understand why, but now she says you can’t do it.”

What?

“She says the younger students can’t go because of the meningitis outbreak, and if you make it only for the older students, the younger students will try to come too…”

She knows as well as I do that these are excuses, not reasons.

“I’m sorry, I know you want to help us, but they don’t want the extra headache. You know how it is in the villages.” Yes. Unfortunately, I do. No good deed goes unappreciated.

After we say our goodbyes I catch up with the kids, who are hanging out around the bridge. If nothing else, at least I can enjoy hanging out with my students. One of the boys is sitting on it, a couple of other boys are walking on it.

Mets minda…I want to, too!

The phone rings and it’s my host mom, so I pass it off to my sister before trying to cross.

The kids freak out. The boys are literally holding me back. As I get free from one, another grabs my arm and another runs in front of the bridge to block me. “It’s very old, it’s dangerous!” they tell me.

“Come on, Levani was JUST on it.”

“Yeah, but he’s a boy.”

Oh. No. You. Didn’t.

During almost all of this, the girls are yelling for me to come back to them so my sister can relay the message from my host mother. Apparently it’s urgent, so I finally give up on the bridge. I’ll get back to that business in a second.

“What is it?” I ask, not masking my irritation.

“We must go.”

“What? Why?”

“It is only four girls and many boys.”

“But two of them are your brothers, one is a nine-year-old, and the others are our friends who our families know. So who is the problem??”

“Oh, I don’t know. But it is not good.”

Knowing I have no choice, I go with the girls, but not without fire in my step and a few choice words that they hopefully don’t know in English.

5:00pm

At the house, I use the little Georgian I know to ask the same questions of my host mother. “Is Levani a bad guy?” No, she doesn’t think so. “Is Giorgi a bad guy?” No, she doesn’t think so. So what is the problem?

“People speak maybe it’s boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Seriously? I can’t hang out with my students because people might spin the story for the best rumor material? I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m not even offended that they think I might crush on a high schooler. Most kids here graduate at 19, and I’m only 21. Between my only being a few years older than them and my outgoing personality, I’ve been aware from day one that I have to be conscientious about my interactions with them.

But for me, that meant not giving them uneven amounts of attention or being in a room alone with one. I had never considered how inappropriate it might be to go on a walk with them. And a mixed-gender group of younger children. In broad daylight.

No you can’t, because people are lazy and don’t care.

No you can’t, because you are a girl.

No you can’t, because people will talk shit.

It’s three stones for one bird, and this little American eagle is out for the count. I’m not used to being shot down like this. I feel tears coming. I don’t fight them.

It isn’t the first time I’ve cried this semester. And I doubt it will be the last.

A Wonderful Weekend Part 2

Sunday, March 23, 2014

12:00pm

Today I’m visiting the Irishman’s village. I sit and let his mother serve me coffee and khatchapuri, even though I’ve already eaten, just to socialize for a few minutes before we head out on a picnic with his seventeen-year-old host brother. The Irishman mentions that our food for the picnic is “still rather alive.” Oh boy.

1:00pm

We’re well on our way and have even picked up the host bro’s friend, some drinks, and some fruit. We drive through open areas where the mountains are visible for miles on each side, and through cute little villages filled with ruined buildings that have been there for who knows how long.

When we get to the Kavtura River, we park the car at a public camping area and walk. The Irishman and I assume that we are scouting out a good picnic spot.

But then we walk. And walk. And walk. Eventually we bother to ask, and are told we are going to a church. And indeed, after a good hike, we come to a beautiful church tucked into the mountains. The church and the area in general are both called Qvataxevi. Apparently it’s an old church that burned during one of the many wars in which someone or another decided to conquer Georgia. Dozens of people died, mostly monks. But it was restored and so was their faith…if it had ever been damaged. Monks live there even today, and Georgians and travelers alike journey to the secluded church regularly.

2:30pm

We park the car by the road, grab all the picnic gear, and slide through dirt and leaves to the bottom of the mountain, where a small river runs between our mountain and the next. It’s too cold for the trees to be green, but it’s still gorgeous. Giant rock faces, quaint waterfalls, the clear water. I soak in a thousand shades of color and wish that we wouldn’t have to leave in a matter of hours.

The boys get a fire going and it’s time to cook the food. The main course of which is a cute, fluffy bunny.

I take a walk in the other direction and return when the throat-cutting part is done.

We sit around the fire and eat fruit and khatchapuri and listen to music while the rabbit cooks. When it’s done, it tastes great. And I’m able to eat it without lingering on how cute it was when alive.

The host bro says he’ll drive me home so we don’t have to get back in time for my bus. Everyone in Georgia seems to know or know someone who knows everyone, so it’s no problem for him to call my university-age host brother and relay the updated plan.

We explore for a while after we eat. This would be a great place for camping. Except for the jackels. But seriously, I need to look into working for Lonely Planet or something. I want this to be my life. Not my whole life, but it would be really cool for a while. To experience Georgia in this way, but long term…without worrying about going to a “real job” the next day.

And this is the burden I've taken upon myself in my travels, I suppose...to be always content but never satisfied.

 

A Wonderful Weekend Part 1

I’ve not been in my new village, Khovle, for a week yet, but I’m already feeling a lot better.

Part of it is recalibrating myself. Realizing that I need to be more realistic and flexible with my goals and teaching strategies. And with Georgia in general. She’s not the most organized, but she’s good at surprises. I guess it’s time to learn how to enjoy not being in control.

The other part is that I had a really great weekend. My friend the Irishman is teaching in the next village over, so I decided I could stay and settle in with the new family but still get some fluent English interaction.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

11:30am

As my host sibs and I walk to meet the Irishman on the main road, we are joined by a couple of neighbor kids. I don’t know if they were originally planning on coming over, but they accompany us back to the house. We have to wait a few minutes for lunch. I ask my host siblings to get out their panduri, a traditional Georgian instrument, and with a little encouragement my host sis and neighbor girl play and sing for us. Then the Irishman takes out his mandolin and plays a tune. I film and take pictures the whole time and probably look like a good soccer mom in the making. But can you blame me? This is really cool. The kids know some English and we know some Georgian, but we all know music.

12:15pm

The Irishman and I are sitting around a table with my host siblings and the neighbor kids while my host mother serves us some wonderful dishes. She then gets out her home-made liquor and pours everyone a shot. Yes. Everyone.

We do a few different toasts-to Georgia and Ireland and America sitting at the same table, to friends, to family. I and my host sister are the only ones who can’t throw back a whole shot.

What can I say? This is Georgia.

1:30pm

The kids are ready to guide me and the Irishman up Cross Mountain, upon which, as you might guess, there is a large cross. The house is literally at the foot of the mountain. We cross the road and are there. On the way up, we come across a herd of cows, a 200-year-old bridge, and amazing views from which you can see Khovle, the Irishman’s village, a couple of nearby towns, the ruins of old churches that have been in the village for centuries, and even an ancient house which was excavated by archeologists from the U.S.

We laugh, have a moss fight, pick flowers, and try to light prayer candles at the cross on top. The wind thwarts the candle lighting. But the neighbor boy still leaves a mark by writing our names and “best friends” on the back of the cross. Vandalism? Maybe. Super sweet? Absolutely.