My Sakartvelo

It’s been a few weeks since I left Georgia. Or Sakartvelo, as they call it in their own language. It’s been relaxing to be home. But before more time passes, I wanted to write a little something to capture some of my experiences from and feelings about Georgia.

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My Sakartvelo is mountains in every direction, with rivers running through them, and quiet villages stretching along their sides and in their valleys. But my Sakartvelo is also trash along riverbanks and lakeshores and roadsides and fields and everywhere else outside of a trash bin.

My Sakartvelo is maneuvering through muddy roads on the way to school while exchanging smiles and greetings with neighbors. And my Sakartvelo is walking back hand in hand with one of my girls until a student (or myself) starts a wrestling match or battle, and we’re forced to disperse and gather sticks or berries or whatever ammunition is available nearby.

My Sakartvelo is being emotionally exhausted with the realization that my personal mental health and happiness require human interaction-not simply speaking or being spoken too, but being understood and understanding others. And yet, my Sakartvelo is all the strength that develops through hardship, and the increased appreciation of a uniquely human gift that is so often taken for granted.

My Sakartvelo is ready acceptance into a home away from home, complete with little siblings to both annoy and enamor me. But my Sakartvelo is also the frustration of being subject to the rules and protection of a traditional family in an extremely male-dominant society.

My Sakartvelo is a dozen smiles at once, between little ears that don’t know how to listen on little bodies that don’t know how to sit still…but are at least drawing me pictures or offering me candies while ignoring me. Yes, my Sakartvelo is affection freely given. And, in a culture where teachers are friends and neighbors instead of strangers to be feared, my Sakartvelo is the freedom to return that affection with hugs and kisses and arms around shoulders.  

My Sakartvelo is not being able to make the difference I want to make. It’s a broken education system that I don’t have the power to fix or work around. But my Sakartvelo is the confirmation, through hours of trying anyway, and of day dreaming about what I would do if I could, that education truly is important to me. This is a priority that will demand my attention many times more in my life.

My Sakartvelo is countless beautiful churches. And yet my Sakartvelo is countless empty crosses, always with the right hand…starting at a head that is empty of Christ’s words, then to somewhere between the ribs, then to the right shoulder, and then finally to the left; reaching twice over a heart that is empty of his love.

My Sakartvelo is the flattery of being a novelty because of my nationality, but my Sakartvelo is also the danger of that novelty when combined with Hollywood stereotypes of loose women and the entitlement of men who see filling their sexual appetites as a natural right and necessity.

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Really, in the end, I love Georgia. Maybe I hate her. But I love her too. I think many TLG veterans would agree with me that to love Georgia is to let her slap you in the face whenever she feels like, and then still hold her hand. I’m not sure if she’s easy to fall in love with or I just fall in love easily. Maybe a bit of both. My feelings for her are not unlike those I had for my ex-boyfriend from when I was 18. He was horrible to me. He made me miserable. And yet I still loved him. Even worse, I thought I could fix him. That we could become better together.

Having said that…there is some difference. Because honestly, there is a lot more potential for change in Georgia than there ever was in my ex. It may not come to fruition in my lifetime, but revolution is already in the works.

So love, I shall <3

Because.

Saturday, May 24^th, 8:00pm

At the hostel, I chat with a former TLGer who is back in Georgia for a visit after a couple years away. We share stories with each other and others hanging out at the hostel about the craziness that is Georgia. His host family, for example, was an extremely traditional family full of men who very well could have been connected to the mafia. They had a stock pile of questionable weapons and assured him that if anyone in Georgia gave him a problem, they would kill that person. And their parents. And their children. Sounds like a good place to live. Why not?

10:00pm

After a while we head out to indulge in the small but potent Tbilisi underground, comprised of disgruntled 20-somethings who know that their country is backwards but can’t escape it. We end up at Dive Bar…a popular hang-out for us foreigners and the locals who enjoy our company. I see a Ukrainian guy my age who I’ve met here before, while he was hosting a crazy group of travelers from Barcelona. He tells me they were traveling in a caravan, but couldn’t take it to India, so they just left the vehicle and all its papers with him. He also tells me that he and some other friends are going to the wine festival tomorrow, and then camping tomorrow night. I’m welcome to join. Sounds like fun…why not?

 

Sunday, May 25^th, 2:00pm

A TLG friend of mine and I meet up with the Ukrainian and his friends, and he shows us our weekend home. As you might guess, it isn’t a usual sight in a country where black is the most popular color of clothing. She also hasn’t been used in a couple of months, and they didn’t clean her out before they left…but hey, our chariot awaits! We hop on board and settle in on the bed in the back. Looks like this could be an adventure…so why not?

 

 

9:00pm

We camp out at a lake called Lisi Lake. By the end of the night I’m sitting around a fire with two British guys, another American, a Ukrainian, a Turkish guy, and an Iranian girl. As it gets darker, the scenery around us gets more beautiful. In front of us is the water, dark and still. Part of the city is framed by hills to our right, and we can see large buildings with hundreds of little golden lights lined up in rows stories high. To our left are more hills, standing tall and deep purple, never minding the quiet lightening lighting up the sky behind them. I can’t help but think to myself that this is what being young should be like. No…that’s not enough for me. This what I want my life to be like. Spontaneity, companionship, beauty….I mean really, why not?

But do I want to be one of the crazies?

But now I’m waffling. Is this really what I want?

Life in Georgia is hard. I mean, I have a great host family, and I have it good in my village compared to almost all the other volunteers. But that is a very relative “good.”

I am still surrounded by a constant gloom. A constant feeling of hopelessness. Because I know that even though I can help these kids speak better English than if I wasn’t here, it will still be remedial at best when I leave. With this education system, they have to take the initiative to study on their own if they want to succeed, no matter if I can give them a boost or not. And indeed, the students who can have even half of a conversation in English are the students who make an effort on their own time.

And if I go back, I can easily get a job as a sub in Arkansas. Still teaching. Still being a role model. Still encourage dreams. But with the exponential increase in effectiveness that speaking the same freaking language can provide. And with freedom over my own schedule, closeness to my family and friends, and with more opportunities to volunteer for archaeologists around.  

And I’ll also be able to make some money. Here we get a stipend, but saving is next to impossible. In the states I can live with my parents for cheap and save up for whatever adventure is next. AND because I’ll have some money, I’ll be able to have more choice about what that adventure is.

AND because I’ll have both more freedom over my own schedule and more money, I’ll still be able to travel and do cool things, if only in and around Arkansas. But it still might be more than I can do with my current situation.

I haven’t actually signed the new contract yet, so I can still change my mind…..

Anybody wanna give their two cents?

Am I one of the crazies?

I used to call them the crazy ones. To their faces, even. Jokingly, of course…but seriously. But I mean, after only a couple of weeks, most of us felt completely trapped. The language barrier keeps us from expressing our selves on a daily basis, and the cultural barrier is often there to stop us in our tracks should we get past the first.

And to make matters worse, our hands are all tied behind our backs as far as school goes. A bunch of adventurous souls wanting to make a difference abroad…and over half the time our Georgian co-teachers just want us to sit there and watch them lead the lesson, despite the fact that their methods of teaching have been tried and found lacking. And even for our English clubs and extra-curricular activities…organizing anything is a challenge when nobody understands anything you say.

By our mid-term training in April, I was confident that I wouldn’t be coming back for a second semester. I started dreaming up other possibilities for the rest of my year. I won’t be in my early twenties forever, after all. I should do more exciting things while I have this independence.

But then….

After training, I went back to school. Back to not being understood.

But also back to dozens of smiling faces rushing at me with smiles, stickers, candy, “I love you” notes with my name misspelled…anything to make me happy. How hard is it understand a child’s affection? How hard is to understand that as frustrated as I am, that affection is reciprocated?

And I went back to not feeling like I was making much of a difference.

But also back to ideas and possibilities that present themselves throughout the day and don’t ever fully leave my mind until it is asleep. I’m learning a lot about the problems of this educational system. I’m also learning a lot about what it needs. I could really make a difference.

And another semester seems like so long now…especially during this independent phase of my life. I mean, to spend a whole year on one thing….it’s a scary thought for me. But when I’m older, won’t I be happy that I stayed? That I came back and experienced the second semester?

So, what do you know, I became one of the crazy ones. I sent in my request to renew and was approved!

Riding the Roller Coaster

Sunday, March 30^th, 6:00pm

I’ve spent the weekend in Tbilisi and now it’s time to head back to my village. My host father is a marshutka driver so I get on his bus. About halfway home, a rather sociable (and possibly tipsy) woman from my village gets up and starts dancing. She motions for me to join. The next thing I know, I’m having a dance off in a moving vehicle and at least half a dozen camera phones are pointing at me. Our audience laughs and claps us on and a couple of boys from my second grade class even bust a few moves of their own.

Wednesday, April 2^nd, 1:00pm

I have a break during 5^th period on Wednesdays. I decide to spend the time outside chatting with students who are gathered outside, also enjoying a class off. Among them is one of the high school boys who attends English club. But doesn’t really know any English. He tells the students some story about his friend’s belt, then tries to translate to me, despite not knowing English. He keeps motioning to his belt, but I’m still not getting the story. So eventually I make a joke out of it and cover my eyes and say “me mastavlebeli!” Meaning, “I’m a teacher!” Everyone laughs, except for him. He then proceeds to apologize profusely throughout the rest of the day. That was probably not my smartest move.

5:00pm

The Irishman has come to visit and my host siblings, the director’s granddaughter (who can speak English well enough to communicate with) and a few other kids walk us to an old house in the village that has actually been excavated by archaeologists, and then to an old tower and church in a cemetery. It’s all cool to me, since I’m an aspiring archaeologist myself and I love old broken stuff. But in conversation, I learn that the kids weren’t outside because they had a break. They were just skipping. Furthermore, the other teachers assumed I knew this. Don’t get me wrong, a couple of them yelled out the window at a couple of the high schoolers, but teachers yelling at students is exhaustingly commonplace in Georgia, so I had believed the students when they waved it off and said “oh, nothing.”

Thursday, April 3^rd, 11:00am

When I arrive at school that morning, the boy who was telling the story about the belt is at the door. I at once try to confront him about the skipping class issue, and communicate that the teachers think I am a bad teacher because they think I was encouraging the students to ignore them.

2:30pm

As I prepare for English Club, he asks to speak to me outside of the classroom for a minute, and hands me a mislead (albeit adorable) letter that he made the director’s granddaughter write for him, apologizing again about the belt incident and explaining the story more fully, because he doesn’t want me to think as if he’s really rude and bad gue. And he is sorry for the yesterday’s happen and hopes the letter will give me the right opinion about him.

It makes me smile, but still…..it feels like my life is defined by language barrier right now.

6:00pm

The twins are turning eleven today. I’m at a table with them and a few of their friends. Some homemade liquor is brought to the table and we are all poured a shot. Yes, all. We take turns making toasts, but don’t worry, no one gets drunk. To their credit, one refuses refills multiple times just because he doesn’t like liquor that much, and another because he still has homework to do.

Everyone heads outside after dinner to watch the twins light heart-shaped paper lanterns. I’m still upset and frustrated by all of the misunderstandings from the past couple of days, but I force myself to drink this in. Because moments like these-seeing the light from the lanterns flicker over the smiling faces of my host siblings, running around with the kids to see if a lantern is going to land on the roof, and watching each drift further and further until it’s just another star twinkling in the sky-these are the beautiful moments. And they’re a lot easier to miss than the ugly ones.  

Tuesday, April 8^th, 8:00pm

The weekend was kind of relaxing yet kind of exhausting. I went with some friends to the seaside city of Batumi. It was beautiful, but a couple of freshman at their first party got too drunk and needed a lot of taking-care-of. And by freshman at their first party I mean adults who should have known better. But I still got to see my friends and the sea. And was able to speak in English and have people actually understand.

And tomorrow I leave for mid-semester training, which means I get the rest of the week off from school, AND I get to see my friends.

But now I get a call from the director’s granddaughter, the one who speaks English. She was a friend and more or less the English life-line of the volunteer before me, and she understands some of the differences between American and Georgian culture. She warns me that some of the things she has heard the other children and teachers say don’t line up with her perception of me, and that my outgoing behavior is read differently by Georgians, especially in regard to the high school boys. And the one mentioned by name isn’t even the one I made the belt joke to.

Right, I thought this wall seemed really thick. I guess I should have realized it was actually two walls…language barrier AND cultural barrier. Of course.  

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.

It's a Good Day to Have a Good Day

Wednesday, March 5^th

My three-day weekend with friends was definitely as refreshing as I needed it to be.

Then, on the bus ride back to Zovreti from Zestaphoni, I sat beside one of my fifth graders and we taught each other words. He was honestly already one of my favorites. He’s an adorable kid with this girlfriend in sixth grade who is at least a head taller than him. He sits in the front of the class and looks at me with these bright blue eyes and eager smile. I want to huggle him up.


Then, yesterday, I finally got to attend dance class with some of my high school students. It was fun, both dancing and hanging out with them. And the dance teachers are both in their early twenties, which is cool for me.

12:30pm

We are reviewing a reading with the second grade class. It’s simple, but they still don’t fully get it. In traditional Russian-inspired Georgian style, my female co has a few different students read one at a time while the rest of the class listens…or doesn’t listen. Usually the latter. But it isn’t long before she looks to me and says, “shall we do something with them?” I love it when she asks me this. She really does understand that the read and regurgitate method doesn’t necessitate actual understanding, and she has noticed that activities which get the students involved are more effective. I think making these teachers realize that they have to try new methods is half of the battle.

So I end up reviewing numbers 1-10 with them. I hold up however many fingers and a dozen exited little voices scramble to say the correct number in English. They are so cute, we can’t help but grin when they keep getting hung up on the number 5.

Then, something even better happens. My co takes over again and chooses the next activity. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but to me, it means a lot. Getting Georgian teachers to realize that student engagement is more effective than zombie-learning is half the battle. Getting Georgian teachers to experiment with engaging activities is the other half.

1:30pm

Only one student is present in the 12^th grade class today.  After the three of us chat for a while, my co having to translate the whole conversation, I give him a challenge. My co will choose ten words. I will learn them in Georgian, and he will learn them in English. On Friday, she will quiz us to see who has learned more. He accepts the challenge, and the trash talking commences. With frequent pauses to ask for more English synonyms of win, of course.

2:00pm

It’s time for my weekly extra English class for grades 7-9. We do a number of activities, including a couple that my male co suggested.

On the walk home, we chat and giggle and I answer a dozen questions that we reviewed in the lesson. “What music do you like,” “What sports do you like,” etc. I happily let them practice their English with me. And I soak up the interaction.

5:00pm

It's a beautiful day, so I decide to go for a walk. The neighbors stare at me as I pass by, either because I am the new American teacher or just because Georgians are lazy and going for a walk on any day seems silly.

I go to the school, and see one of my students there. He, his mom, and his little sister are cleaning the school. I share a very light-hearted but linguistically limited chat with them and head back down the road. I’m not far before I run into a random village dude, and then some of the kids who live in the houses nearby. I recognize a couple, including a little buddy of mine from the dance studio. I meet their mom and hang out with them for a bit. They bring out their adorable puppy, I get out my camera, and we take a million photos.

7:00pm

At home, when we sit down for dinner, my host mom gives me a normal size plate instead of a big bowl, which is also a victory of sorts. Traditional Georgian hospitality requires that hosts feed their guests to their hearts’ content. In real life, that seems to translate into feeding them a dubious amount of food no matter how realistically said amount can fit into a guest’s stomach.

10:00pm

I even get to take a shower tonight. I don’t get to bathe myself, as the mom holds the shower head for me…again. I’m not really sure how to politely ask to bathe myself. But afterwards I am at least able to convince her that I can brush my own hair this time. It’s a step.

So this is still hard. And I am still thinking that next semester I should find a place where I can be surrounded by other young adventurers who speak English. But right now, all I can do is take it one day at a time. And today, I had a really good day.

My First Georgian Excursion

Friday, February 28^th

11:00am

Classes are all short today so that the teachers can go on an excursion to an old church in Tbilisi, where the body of a Georgian saint is being kept for the weekend. As teachers trickle into the teacher’s room after their last classes, we sit down to celebrate one teacher’s birthday with cake. And homemade wine. And some Russian drink that is definitely more alcoholic than wine. And a little prompting from our directorio (principle), who notices how slowly my wine is disappearing and asks, “Don’t you drink?!”

Not anything we would expect in a school back home. But I can certainly enjoy the differences. I think I’ll enjoy the excursion, too. At the very least it gives me a free marshutka ride to start off my three-day weekend out of the village. I'll hang out with friends in Tbilisi, then head to Bakuriani for a ski trip with other friends. Monday is a holiday, so I don't have to return to Zovreti until then.

5:00pm

We are running on Georgian time, aka late, but finally reach the old and respected Semeba Cathedral.  The walk from our marshutka to the church is heartbreaking. Every beggar in Tbilisi seems to have found a place to camp out.

When we get there, there are already hundreds of people crowding together on the cathedral steps. I ask my co, “What are those people doing?”

“They are in a queue.”

“To see the monk’s dead body?”

“Of course.”

Of course. What else would they be waiting so long for? Silly American me.

Before long, I give up on the monk viewing and leave early so as to not be late meeting up with friends. My co and his brother walk me to the metro, scan a card, and push me through before I can ask which train I’m supposed to take. Thankfully there are only two options.

10:00pm

I’m at a Georgian restaurant drinking and talking with quite an interesting group. There’s the Georgian university student who I just happened to meet at the airport during my connecting flight from Istanbul to Tbilisi. He was traveling home from a semester in Estonia. There are also a couple teachers from the same batch of Teach and Learners as myself: the Irishman who spent six months in China just to learn kung fu and the Scotsman who has already taught in Japan and Thailand. Then there is a friend of the Scotsman, who he met in Serbia, and who happens to be a fellow Arkansan and a Teach and Learn veteran. Quite possibly the only other person from my little state who has even done Teach and Learn with Georgia. And here we are meeting through a mutual friend who is from a completely different part of the world.  How does that even happen? I don’t know, but I love it. I enjoy the conversation. I enjoy the company. I enjoy being part of a group of young adventurers who care about the world and its happenings and its past and its future. And its present.

I really belong here. I thrive here. Not in any place, but here.

Cakes Weren't Meant for Eating

Tuesday February 25^th

9:00am

I’m at my school, about to start another day of co-teaching. I’m feeling down. I haven’t adjusted to the language barrier, and I miss all the friends I made in orientation. As I go from class to class, the inefficiencies of the Georgian education system add to my gloom. These kids read and recite English all day, but can’t actually communicate in English at all. They know more than I ever will about the past simple perfect whatever tense, but can’t even ask me how old I am without a co-teacher translating. It is legitimately baffling that any system of teaching a language could be so terrible that years of study could yield absolutely zero ability to produce or express ideas in said language. A co notices my mood and comments. I guess I’m not a good actor. But I do love hanging out with my students, and today after school I’ll get to join in on a traditional dance class with the high schoolers. Surely I’ll find some energy to feed on there.

1:00pm

My co is reminded that the teachers have a funeral to attend after school today. Will I join them? I’ll have to skip dance class. The one thing I was looking forward too. But how can I say no? I’m a teacher in this community, and I have social obligations to fulfil accordingly. Why can’t I enjoy the independence of adult life without the responsibilities? Why can’t I have my cake and eat it too?

3:00pm

The funeral is boring. We comfort the mourners for about five minutes, then go wait in the yard with all the other guests. My female co isn’t around and my male co is socializing with the other men, so I kind of just stand around with the women, not knowing what the conversation is about except when I look up to see that they are all smiling and staring at me as they talk. They seem to adore me. Or at least the pretty, polite little slice of me they interact with.

After what seems like forever, we load into a marshutka (bus) and drive to the nearest “big” town for a supra (feast). I realize that maybe this funeral thing is good for me right now…it gives me all afternoon to quietly wallow in my misery. Sometimes I just need to wallow before I can get back at it.

A Surprise Visit(ation)

Thursday, February 20th

I’m at school with the male co-teacher and everything is going well. We are with the first graders, who are adorable. The bell rings before we have finished the lesson, and my co-teacher tells me that class has been cut short so that we can see the school accountant. Will I come? Sure, I’ll come.

I’m thinking maybe the school accountant is one who we give account to, or check in with, rather than one who keeps account of the money, especially after I realize that EVERY TEACHER in the school is going. Seriously, I have no idea who we are leaving with the building full of kids. We walk down a muddy road near the school. My male co is up ahead with the couple of other men who work at the school and I must walk with the other women at a pace of about 0.00000000001 miles per hour. I actually have to make a continuous conscious effort to go slow enough and stay with the pack. The female co isn’t there today, so I have no one to ask for more details as to what exactly we are doing.

We stop to wait for a missing teacher. I hear wailing in a house nearby and can’t tell if someone is angry or crying or what. Oh well, Georgians are very loud and unreserved about expressing their emotions, so it could just be someone angry about lunch being burnt.

But when the missing teacher arrives and the turtle walk continues, I realize that we are going into the house with the wailing. For a minute I’m seriously wondering if in Georgian culture, the school accountants are shaman-like personas and if we will be given a big speech completely in hysterical yelling. What kind of ritual could this possibly be?

As we file into the upstairs room, I see that the source of the wailing is a middle aged woman, seated with a row of other women, all in tears. In front of them is a coffin. It’s empty. The body is laying outside of it, covered in a white sheet.

Yeah. I walk in the room and there is a DEAD FREAKING BODY. Furthermore, I can’t in any graceful way remove myself from the procession of teachers as it passes the mourning family, but I don’t know any of them or what to do so I just pass by in silence as the women around me comfort them. We then stand around for a while, many of the teachers tearing up, and listen to the woman lamenting her sorrow over the loss of her loved one. It really is a solemn sight, and even I have to fight tears when the woman goes to the body and pulls back the blanket to kiss the deceased on the cheek. One of the teachers goes to her to calm her down and pull her back to her seat.

Afterward we make our way back to the school and teach the rest of the day’s lessons.

So yeah….what an interesting experience. That evening at dinner, I entertain my family by using a combination of charades and broken Georgian to tell them about my day. They get a kick out of it. So at least the situation provides for some host-family bonding. This is going to be a crazy adventure, but I really think I’m already starting to feel ok.

Holy catchapuri, what have I gotten myself into?

Wednesday February 19th

It’s my second full day and I am already exhausted.

I like school. One co-teacher is a young man who is motivated and ready to take advantage of having a native English speaker in his lessons. The other co-teacher is an older woman who is very kind to me and lets me speak or do activities when I ask, though she doesn’t plan her use of me beforehand. I absolutely love the students and want to be at school from start to finish instead of just my required classes with the 1^st-6^th grades, but I know that settling into two different co-teaching strategies will be challenging.

And being at home is always challenging. Don’t get me wrong, my host family is great. They are very friendly, the food is delicious, and I have the whole upstairs part of the house to myself. But not having anyone around who speaks the same language is absolutely exhausting.

I try not to stay in my room all day, as Georgian society is traditionally a collective society, and families tend to spend all day together in the common room or kitchen. However, sitting there for hours not saying much or being able to express myself is frustrating. Listening to everyone around me and still not having any clue what is going on is boring. And although my host sister-in-law is fairly good at finding a way to communicate things to me when need be, the process is very tiring. And I don’t have internet so that venue of escape or even communication with my family back home is out of the picture for now.

The only way I can rest or relax is to withdraw to my room and study Georgian or call the friends I made during orientation.

But this worries the family. This evening we are playing cards. Well, I’m not really playing cards, because even though it is a game I know, a Georgian friend of the family is “helping” me, aka playing for me. I think people have a tendency to associate language ability with mental ability. I don’t mean that in a snide way. Back at my university in Arkansas, it was something myself and some other students who volunteered with internationals were specifically warned to be conscious of. But anyway, I get bored, and eventually excuse myself and head up to my room. It isn’t long before the sister who lives in Tbilisi and speaks a little English is texting to ask how I am, which she is obviously relaying to the family. Eventually the sister-in-law comes up as well, brining catchapuri and tea and sympathizing with how much work I have.

Despite all the concerns, I stay in my room as long as I can. I’m not mad at anyone. But already, in my second full day in my village, this experience is kicking my ass. I guess I’m starting to realize what I’ve gotten myself into. There is no escape from work except for solitude. Solitude is rude, however. No freedom to come and go from the house as I please. Nowhere to go, anyway. And there is no way to change the situation. Until I learn more Georgian, at least.

But I also realize that the adventurer in me and the masochist in me are interconnected. In the past, when I heard stories like this from others, these parts, the hard parts, made my adrenaline pump as much as any others. I would always wonder if I could handle it. And how much more badass I would be for it afterward. And after all, there is no great adventure without conflict or hardship. So yes, right now it sucks, but I can handle it, and I’ll get through it. Maybe it won’t get to an easy place, maybe there will be continual struggles this semester. But this is what I was asking for-this is what I wanted. And I can do this.

Welcome to your new life....

Monday, February 17th

After our last breakfast at Hotel Sakartvelo, myself and the other teachers say our goodbyes and board our region-specific marshutkas (buses). I'll be in the village of Zovreti in the Imereti Region.

There are about half a dozen of us in the Imereti Region marshutka. About halfway, we stop at a restaurant with a separate building for toilets.  Unlike those in our hotel in Tbilisi, these are Turkish style toilets. We have to pay thirty tetri for toilet paper, the smell is rancid, and there are no doors or even curtains to close off the three stalls. Call me strange, but I get a kick out of it, and even a little bit of excitement about the adventure ahead.

Back on the road, we joke about not wanting to be the first off the bus. Of course, I am the first off the bus.

I can tell from our very first introductions that the host family doesn't speak English. This will be a challenge. Just what I like.

As I am waiting for the supra, or special dinner feast, I am sitting at the table with the three year old. He randomly punches me right in the nose. The grandpa says “ooh!” loud enough to get the attention of the others in the next room, but I can’t just sit there and recover. I have to show them that it really isn’t ok. I go up to my room and shut the door, and try to use the opportunity to cry. I don’t cry that much, because I don’t feel negative emotions that much. I don’t know if they are suppressed or really just not there or what, but the fear and anxiety of all the coming challenges that I know about in my head just haven’t shown up in my chest. But I know crying is healthy sometimes, so I do it until my host sister-in-law comes in with the boy and makes him apologize.

The supra is fun, even though I don't always know what is going on. We toast to a number of things, and establish that I can smoke here and my host family won't assume I'm a "tsudi gogo," or bad girl, as is the typical attitude in villages towards women who smoke.  Actually the word they used in orientation was "whore," but I don't know how to say that in Georgian. I'm not a regular smoker or anything, but I feel like it will play a role in my navigating and challenging Georgian gender stereotypes.

Teach and Learn Orientation, Spring 2014

As I write about my experiences here in Georgia, I must confess, I’ll be giving you a censored version. Yes, this is my story, but the other characters involved are real people who do not want their names or lives plastered all over the internet. At the same time, I’m not going to fabricate an experience which isn’t the one I’m having, and I’m not going to leave out many (if any) situations which I find integral to it. So those who read my blogs from afar will have to excuse my being vague at times; and those featured in it (should they even know English or someone who does), will have to excuse my honesty.

Orientation Training Week:

By just a couple days in, it feels like this my life. It feels like I know these 20 people, but not like I just met them. It feels like I’m subject to this schedule, but not like it’s something different. This just….is.

We are learning way too much Georgian in our language classes to remember, but I know that only those of us who make the effort to study consistently on our own will get past the basic tourist-guide-book phrases.

Our intercultural training and methodology lectures have some interesting info but can be very boring. It’s funny how sitting in a chair all day can drain you.

The hotel feeds us three times a day, and it’s all REAL food. Bread, cheese, and meat seem to make an appearance at every meal. Which is great, but does get monotonous. But oh well. We are told that there won’t be a huge variety of menu options in the villages either, so I suppose we might as well get used to it now.

We also explore Tbilisi in the evenings. We ride a tram up a mountain to a small amusement park. It’s covered in snow and abandoned for the winter, and in the dimming light it’s wonderfully eerie.

Another day, we explore a park. It’s modern and artistic, with the brick path coming up in swirling mounds every here and there. But at the back we find a very post-soviet feeling block of concrete. Like, seriously, it’s a huge concrete cube with many openings, including two huge circles on opposite sides, and slits on the floor through which we can see that the ground is far enough away to make for a deadly fall.

Another time I’m able to meet up with a skype friend I met online. Yes, he turned out to be a real 19-year-old Georgian university student, just like he was on skype. We walk a ways down the road and stop in front of a monument erected for those who died in the 1989 protests. His parents were there. They took part…saw the tanks, heard the chaos. It blows my mind to think about. The biggest protest I have been a part of was a counter protest when Westboro Baptist came to my uni. We stood across the road and sang happy songs at them.

On Valentine's Day, a bunch of us head to a bar/restaurant on the same block as the hotel for a traditional Georgian dance. When we get there, it’s almost empty, and although there are some young men with instruments, there is no dancing. We end up asking the waitress if someone can show us….and to our delight, a young man and young woman who work at the restaurant come dance for us. And then to our further delight, a guy dressed in a weird woman-suite (I have no other way to describe. Look for the video and you will see!) comes and joins the dance, and even dances with myself and another tlger. They give us a bottle of wine after 10 because we “won a game,” aka are the only people still there; and they light two heart-shaped lantern candle things. Already jolly from wine, all but the Irishman head to a club for some dancing. Its great fun, but we end up leaving when we’ve had enough of this local guy who seems to know English with the exception of the phrase “she doesn’t want to dance with you.”

The last note-worthy excursion is a trip to a local bar…the artsy bat where the stoners hang out. A VERY unique look at a VERY small part of Georgian society. I’m there with a few guy friends, and although I’m ready to go back at midnight so I can get up for class in the morning, they are in the mood to party all night. I can’t go into details for their sake, but I want to give you a taste of the real-life intercultural training we received that night by giving some quotes from people we met:

~

“I do NOT need a Georgian man. I know Georgian men. When I was seventeen, I was married to a Georgian man. He is in jail now. My father is a Georgian man. My brothers are Georgian men. I do NOT need a Georgain man.”

Here I will also note that in a culture where women are expected to be virgins until they are married, shooting for a one night stand may get you into an uncomfortable situation with a drunk girl who thinks she is your girlfriend.

~

“That was my mom calling me. She wanted to check on me.”

“At 2:30am? How old are you?”

“I’m 21. It’s just the way Georgian moms are. If I am with a friend of a friend of a friend, she will call HIM. And I am like, how the f*ck did you find me???”

~

”Weed grows wild here. You’ll find it everywhere. It’s really easy to get. But if you get caught, you can go to prison for 8 to 9 years.”

~
”I am traveling from Turkey. I translate for Greenpeace. But I just wanted to go out for a while. There are protests there now because the government shut off the internet. They claim it was because the people were using it to watch porn!”
~

So yeah. That’s over  a week of TLG and Tbilisi smushed into one post . I hope the pieces I’ve given you are poignant enough for you to get a good taste!

My first day in Georgia

February 7^th (6^th in Hawaii)

7:20am

I’m finally settling in for bed after three plane rides, a bus ride to the hotel, and some time getting to know a few of my fellow volunteers.

After being in airports or on planes for a day and a half, I guess I’m ready to go to bed. My body obviously hasn’t adjusted, but I don’t know that it’s on Hawaii time either. In truth, I lost track of my sleep schedule at least a day ago. Time just isn’t as useful of a concept when you’re practically traversing across it. 

2:30pm

We are helping ourselves to the buffet of fresh Georgian food the hotel is providing for us. Bread, cheese, chicken, soup, vegetables…it’s all real food, and it’s all good. I’m practically salivating when I sit down at the table, chattering on about how excited I am to dig in. As I take a spoonful of soup, I look up and catch a grin on the face of the young woman tending the buffet. I remember what I’ve read about the importance of being a good host in Georgian culture, and the pride or shame that comes with a guest’s level of contentedness. I take note of the fact that I need to be aware of my reactions, as they will be closely watched.

Another volunteer and I want some Turkish tea, but it’s sitting on a shelf to the side and no tea cups are out. I decide to use a bowl. She tries to use a glass cup, but the hot water breaks it in half. A few minutes later and an older woman is reprimanding the younger woman as they get out the tea cups and sugar and place it all on the table. Oops? We certainly didn’t mean to get her in trouble.

So when we pass her as we head up the stairs, I smile and say “didi madloba! Thank you!” to which she responds with a genuine smile, “Arapris!” and something else which I can’t make out.

11:00pm

After walking around for a taste of the city, enjoying a healthy dinner, and loosening up with card games and laughter, we are all tired. We talk for a while as people one by one say goodnight and retire to their rooms. Myself and another first timer, Matt, stay up a bit longer listening to an older volunteer named Phil recount memories from previous semesters volunteering with Teach and Learn.

We are warned and understand that we are not about to change the Georgian education system, or even our assigned school, in one semester. And in truth our job is not solely concerned with the education system. In our lessons and interactions, both inside and outside the classroom, we offer the people exposure to a new way of thinking. Soviet Russia is out of office, but she is still in this country. We have the opportunity to demonstrate-not to push, but simply to show- a new way of thinking about education and how it can actually be enjoyable. We can also present, however subtly, new ideas about society, gender roles, etc. For every adult who is stuck in the old ways despite their inefficiency, there are a dozen children and youths who have the opportunity and the desire to try new ways as they grow up and inherit their villages.

12:00am

As I fall asleep, I day dream about meeting my host family, adjusting to my role in the classroom, and learning the language. Pictures of smiling Georgian children and tall, snowy mountains drift through my head. I hope I get along well with my host family and have a good working relationship with the local English teachers. Until orientation is over, so much of 2014 is still a mystery to me. I know I’m not guaranteed anything even close to easy, but I can’t help but feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I think I might just fall in love with Georgia. I hope she proves me right.